


powerful day

by douchechill



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, TOKIO
Genre: AU, M/M, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 01:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/douchechill/pseuds/douchechill
Summary: Tomoya’s dream of being in a band is crushed when the band flops out of existence. A friend of his offers him a position on a motorbike racing team, and believing it to be a new start, Tomoya agrees.





	powerful day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published for [JE United](http://je-united.livejournal.com) under the title _All Our Lives_. Most of the content is the same with a minor edit at the end.
> 
> The author's notes in the original publication read: This got soooooo far away from me. I wanted to put more porn in it, but the half-bit plot captured me and I ended up writing a whole bunch of words instead. (21k!!) I’m sorry if this isn’t quite what you were looking for, anon; it’s got its shippy moments, but there’re a lot of themes regarding family and starting a new life in it more than romance. Still, I hope you enjoy all the same.

This is home now.

The dirt under his boots, the helmet on his head, his hands wrapped around a set of handlebars; he can feel the wind blow on the back of his neck, and Tomoya takes a deep breath, follows its direction, looks straight ahead, and lets himself fly.

He can remember his father’s voice, but only a little bit, the sound of it reminiscent of a worn out record on a phonograph. He can remember him saying that there’s nothing quite like bikes and nothing quite like the rush of riding them, can remember the way his lips curved into a smile around the hushed light of a cigarette. Among all the awful memories, this one is perhaps the only pleasant one he has; Tomoya wasn’t even ten yet, and papa had yet to fall in love with alcohol.

The air smells like sea salt, though Tomoya supposes that’d be the norm for biking with the sea at your side. As he races down the empty road, as the sun beats on him, as he remembers the gentle expression on his father’s face, the ocean to his right sparkles with life and beauty, and the bike beneath him purrs with an elegance he’d never felt before.

In the back of his mind are these words: _It’s been a pleasure working with you guys, but I think this is where we pull the plug_. In the back of his mind are these images: his hands tightening around a guitar, his eyes widening in shock, his palms filling with sweat, and every dream he might’ve had shattering beneath his eyelids. In the back of his mind is this idea: after music, what left is there to turn to?

But maybe his father was right about some things after all, like freedom coming in the form of wheels and handlebars and the wind in your face, like the fact that Tomoya didn’t have what it took to be a musician in the first place.

In the end, though, Tomoya laughs, and the world laughs with him.

This whole bike gig might not be half-bad.

* * *

  
Land Snail Racing’s an up-and-coming motorcycle team, started by Shinsuke Takizawa (lovingly called Shin) and a couple of his friends. At the time of its creation Tomoya hadn’t had the opportunity to be one of the founding members--he’d been far too busy in a foolish dream of becoming a musician--but as things turned out, LSR needed a new member for a new race for four members, and Tomoya was happy to step up to plate.

“Someone’s looking good,” Aki teases when Tomoya’s all suited up. The leather feels good on his skin, the boots on his feet even more so, and when he looks down at the 47 written on his bicep he knows he’s grinning like mad. Aki has a similar number on his own bicep: he’s number 53.

“You think so?” Tomoya asks, looking over his shoulder and at the same number splayed on his back. Above it is TOM, written in all-capital letters, and he tingles from head to toe in anticipation. “Dude, the _real_ amazing thing is that Shin-chan got to make this so quick! He just asked me to ride with you guys last week, you know?”

Aki laughs, lighting a cigarette up. “That’s Shin for ya,” he says easily. “That or he’s had that suit just lying around for ages. He’s been wanting you on LSR for years.”

“What lie is this fool spreading now?” asks Shin himself as he comes to stand by Tomoya’s side. The number on Shin’s back reads 46, and in true camaraderie his arm curls around Tomoya’s shoulders at the precise time Tomoya mirrors it. Not one to forget, Shin makes sure to give Aki a proper flip of his middle finger before talking again. “You two goons ready? We’ll have to be on the track with our bikes in ten, so I called our ‘chanics over.”

“’chanics?” Tomoya echoes.

Aki takes a puff of his cigarette, moving to pick his helmet up with his other hand. “Yeah, like mechanics. You’ve seen ‘em at races, right?”

“Like F1 races and stuff?” Tomoya offers, head tilting. Then his eyes go wide, and there’s visible laughter from the men at his side. “Wait--seriously!? This race is at that level? Shin-chan, I thought you said it’d just be a casual track--”

Shin gives the top of his head a little pat. “It’s not the level that matters, Tom. You always gotta make sure your bike’s in tune.”

“Otherwise it’ll explode on track,” Aki continues, all his fingers spreading outward in a flash, “and you’ll have to kiss your sweet life goodbye.”

Tomoya’s face pales at the same time Shin gives Aki a kick, and number 53 walks off towards his bike with a laugh and a ‘just kidding, I swear!’.

Shin shakes his head. “Dumbass,” he says, but the smile on his lips betrays him as he watches Aki go. The arm around Tomoya’s shoulders squeezes before releasing, Shin’s hand resting on Tomoya’s upper back as he leads him along. “You’re gonna be fine, man, trust me. And maybe you won’t _explode_ , but you still gotta make sure your engine won’t suddenly stall and all that. That’s what we have mechanics for.”

“Huh,” Tomoya muses, lips pursing, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay. Is there just one guy doing all our bikes or something?”

“Well, my ‘chanic’s a girl.” There’s a little twinkle in Shin’s eyes that has Tomoya nudging him with a ‘gross!’, and Shin’s happy to nudge him back with a grin that isn’t short of lecherous. “But since we had an addition to the team, you, we got a new ‘chanic on, too. He’s kind of a character, but…”

“Ah.” When they reach Tomoya’s bike there’s a man already crouched to work on it, and Tomoya points with a curious expression. “Is that him?”

Shin gently smacks Tomoya’s hand down. “Matsuoka-san,” he says instead, and the man by the bike pauses in his work and glances up through thick-framed lenses and beneath the rim of a cap. Expression changing in recognition, he moves to stand and gives a quick bow, the corners of his mouth pulled up into a relatively polite smile.

“Takizawa-san,” he greets. It’s a pleasant voice to listen to; Tomoya finds himself smiling before he can resist it. “Hello. I thought I’d get to work right away, if you don’t mind. Or rather--” Now his gaze shifts, eyes on Tomoya, and on instinct Tomoya straightens to full height and rests his arms at his sides. “--if _you_ don’t mind, Nagase-san.”

Tomoya blinks. “You know my name?” he asks, awed. This is where Shin laughs, lightly giving Tomoya a pat on the back while Matsuoka shakes his head from side to side. “He’s your partner, idiot, of _course_ he knows your name. We had to tell him whose bike he’d be working on, after all.”

“Oh!” Tomoya pipes, then nods with a sheepish expression of his own. “That makes sense! But, uh, nah, I don’t mind, Matsu--Ma… Ma…”

“Matsuoka,” says the mechanic, his lips curled just vaguely in amusement. “Masahiro Matsuoka. It’s nice to meet you.”

Tomoya returns the tiny smile with a huge one, holding his hand out. “Tomoya Nagase! The feeling’s mutual.”

Matsuoka’s grip is firm when their hands meet. He’s warm enough Tomoya thinks he can feel it through their gloves, but the single shake the other man gives distracts him before he can think about it any further.

“Let’s get along well,” Matsuoka claims, grinning.

Tomoya agrees with ease.

* * *

  
It feels different on the track than it did on the beach.

There’re butterflies in his stomach Tomoya’s sure he’s never had before; they flit and flutter and make Tomoya feel pretty much sick. The race is going to start in two minutes, and while Shin had assured him that Matsuoka knew what he was doing, watching the man go about affixing parts to his bike had made anxiety rumble in his chest like nothing else.

“But what could possibly go wrong?” Tomoya mumbles under his breath, and from panic alone he feels sweat pool beneath his helmet and drip down his cheek. “You’re gonna be fine, Tomoya. You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be _fine_.”

The announcer starts to speak: “Welcome to round 1 of this year’s A.C.T.S. VMX! We’ve got a number of teams on the track today, folks, featuring BUNKERSTUD, KONGS, White Rain…”

And Tomoya tunes out almost immediately.

All around him he hears purring bikes, a few engines revving here and there in preparation. His grip on his own handles goes white-knuckled, Tomoya’s lungs expanding as he takes in a breath, and he gives a hard blink and keeps his eyes on the track. In the back of his mind he knows the announcer’s still talking, but his brows furrow as he tries to quell the nerves that threaten to swallow him up.

He remembers the seaside. He remembers his first motorbike kicking to life. He remembers the rumble of the engine beneath his thighs, the scent of salt in his nose, and the wind tickling his neck. And when his eyes close, he remembers the colour of the sky.

He doesn’t think about guitars.

“Home,” he says. His voice is low, his lips pressing together, and he gives a definitive nod of his head.

The gun sounds.

And Tomoya’s eyes flick open.

The atmosphere changes in an instant, the heat in the air replaced by the cool wind of having the world whip around him. His surroundings dim into a blur; Tomoya’s eyes stay straight ahead, following the curves of the track and every mechanism, and before he knows it’s happening the frightened feeling fades away.

He stops biting his lip, lets his mouth open instead, and laughs even behind the mouth guard of his helmet. He laughs and curls his hand backward, engine giving a snarl beneath him in turn; Tomoya tells himself he’s going to _fly_ , and as the needle of his speedometre fights to move to the right, he does just that. He swerves around competitors, hears nothing but the race and the bikes and the joy in his ears, and his heart thrums and beats with all the passion of a taiko drum as he passes person after person after person.

“Yeah!” he yells, leaning forward and forcing his bike to move faster. “Come on, come on, come on!”

So come his bike does as it passes the finish line in its last lap.

Tomoya stops, tires skidding over dirt, and when both his legs move out to push his feet against the ground he feels his knees trembling. His hands shake, too, his eyes fixed on the dashboard beneath him, and before he knows it he feels Aki barrel into his side with a scream, strong arms wrapping tight around him.

* * *

  
“Fifth place!”

Tomoya tries to hide his face in embarrassment while Joshima stares at him. They’re sitting in a Lotteria joint and Joshima’s only eaten about three of his consomme fries; Tomoya’s hands fumble a little around his burger while he chews, but he does nod his head.

“Damn,” Joshima says with a whistle, his fourth fry in his fingers. It’s been there the past ten minutes as Tomoya narrated the whole thing--from coming to the track to meeting his new teammates to actually running on the road--and it’s likely Joshima’s forgotten it’s there at all. “Maybe you really do have a talent for this kind of stuff! Tatsuya’s still worried about you, obviously, but I told him to have a little more faith and it looks like I was right.”

“You’re always right, Leader,” Tomoya praises after he swallows. Joshima laughs and shakes his head with a smile, moving to grab another fry, and the expression on his face when he realises he already has one in his fingers is one Tomoya wishes he could put on a polaroid.

He’d been a musician before the whole racing thing--or, rather, a struggling one. Along with Joshima and Tatsuya they’d been an indie three-man band called JURIA: a guitarist, a bassist, and a singer. They’d had some gigs here and there, playing mostly at open mic nights and the very rare event, but when even their third album failed to sell they decided to call it quits. Or, rather, their manager did, and apparently Taichi’s band after JURIA had been doing especially well in the underground rock genre before he dropped out himself to start a family.

“So you like it?” Joshima asks. Tomoya notes he still hasn’t eaten that fourth fry, but says nothing about it as he nods his head. “It’s great stuff,” he promises, ripping another ketchup packet open and spreading some over his burger. “I thought I’d panic, what with it being a competition and all, but it’s not so bad. It’s like… I already _dig_ bikes, so it doesn’t feel like something to be pressured about. You know?”

“I wish I did,” Joshima says with a sigh. “I still don’t know how to swim, so I don’t know how this lifeguard thing is going to work out.”

Tomoya makes some vague gesture with his hand. “But you’re doing it with Gussan, so it can’t be _awful_.”

“Tatsuya can’t swim for me all the time!”

“Then go into the ocean.”

“Hell no.”

Tomoya laughs at that, holding his hands up in surrender. He finishes the last of his burger, gets to work on his own fries, and this time doesn’t hide the stupid grin on his face when Joshima’s surprised he already has a fry in his hand again.

“It must be nice, though, right?” Tomoya asks, popping fries into his mouth like potato chips. “Getting to work with a friend and all.”

Joshima nods, finally unwrapping his burger and crinkling his nose when he finds it cold. Then again, given it’d been about fifteen minutes since they sat down, Tomoya wonders how these things can slip Joshima’s mind. “He makes it a lot easier to deal with… and then harder to deal with, when we argue. But I suppose that goes for _any_ friendship, huh?”

“I definitely see Aki-kun and Shin-chan fighting heaps, and I’ve only been in LSR for a day,” Tomoya agrees, nodding. Joshima takes a big bite of his burger, cheeks bulging, and then gently waves his hand from side to side to match his shrug.

When he swallows, he says, “What matters is you’re having fun.”

“I am,” Tomoya promises. He finishes the last of his fries and steals some from Joshima without any argument. “This is the second most awesome thing I could do after music, Leader. For real!”

* * *

  
“Whoa!” Tomoya jumps, surprised. “You’re early!”

Matsuoka lifts his head to afford Tomoya a smile before looking back down at the parts in his hands and fitting them together with a twist. It’s been two weeks since their first race and Matsuoka looks exactly the same, even down to his wardrobe; Tomoya’s hair is growing too long and he really needs a shave. “I could say the same for you,” is what Matsuoka says in reply. “You know your race doesn’t start for another nine hours, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Tomoya pulls his cap up off his head, wringing it in his fingers before setting it aside on the floor with his backpack. In front of Matsuoka is the skeleton of his Harley. So many parts have been removed from it that the whole thing looks like a sci-fi robot slaughter scene. “But I thought I’d sneak in a ride before you came to do maintenance and…”

“Your bike’s disassembled,” Matsuoka says easily. Tomoya manages a sheepish smile and a nod, moving to grab a chair and sitting in it backwards. His arms fold atop the rest, his chin resting on his forearm, and he resists the urge to yawn.

“Do you do that all the time?” Tomoya asks.

“Taking the bike apart?”

“Mmhmm.”

Matsuoka makes a noise in the back of his throat, moving to pull a wrench and fit a nut in. Tomoya’s eyes flit briefly to the movements of his arms and shoulders, then settle on his hands instead. “I do,” Matsuoka answers, putting the wrench aside once the nut’s tightened good enough. Like clockwork, he sets this piece of the bike aside and moves onto the next one, working like a well-oiled machine.

“And then you put it together again.” Tomoya finishes the thought with a smile, and from this angle he gets a nice view of Matsuoka’s profile and how he’s smiling a little, too. “That’s _amazing_ , Matsuoka-san.”

“Old habits die hard,” Matsuoka says in return, moving to pick up a screwdriver. Tomoya waits for more, watching Matsuoka work, but when he doesn’t add more he asks, “Old habits from what?”

A pensive sound comes from Matsuoka’s closed mouth. He pauses in his work with the driver, its head still poised in the necessary position. Like he’d had some internal war with himself and made some decision, Matsuoka finally answers after much delay: “I used to work for MotoGP teams.”

To which Tomoya aptly screams, “ _What_!?”

The most unbelievable thing is how casually Matsuoka says it. As if it isn’t incredible he’d been at worldwide competitions--as if it isn’t blowing Tomoya’s mind that someone at that level of expertise is working on his miserable little Harley now.

Tomoya stands from his seat, fingers curled around the top of the chair’s backrest. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that, Nagase-san.”

“Holy _shit_!”

He drops back onto his seat with a little thud, and in return Matsuoka laughs at him. Tomoya’s not sure what’s so funny, but he does keep leaning in, eyes wide in shock and fingers curled tight around the chair he’s sitting on. “MotoGP?” he chirps. “All the bikes they use there aren’t even in normal distribution, man! Those’re prototype levels! Untested levels! Like, unsafe for regular roads levels, dead man walking lev--”

“I know,” Matsuoka interjects. “I was there, Nagase-san.”

“What was that even like!?” Tomoya asks, and he knows he’s shouting now, but all Matsuoka does is give a little roll of his eyes in reply. His mouth, however, flirts with the promise of a smile; unfortunately, Tomoya misses it entirely in the veritable shock of his mechanic’s apparent prowess.

“It was work,” Matsuoka says plainly. “You know how work goes.”

“But that’s so _cool_!” Tomoya whines, hands flailing like mad in Matsuoka’s general direction. Questions fly like bullets, crashing and banging in the air in a shrieking D minor. “How did you get in? How long were you there? Why did you quit? Do you miss it?”

Matsuoka makes that expression again--the one that makes it look like he’s thinking--and then finally turns to look at Tomoya with a smile. “How about you come help me finish up here quick, and maybe we use that extra time after to talk?”

“But I’ve never…” Tomoya trails off awkwardly, excitement deflating like a balloon, but Matsuoka shakes his head and pats the floorspace by his side regardless. So Tomoya inhales, stands from his seat, and plops over to where Matsuoka is.

The other man hands him a screwdriver, flipping it so the handle is facing Tomoya’s way. “I’ll show you what it’s like to put a bike back together and you tell me how cool it is.”

“Eh--”

“And make sure to listen, huh, Nagase?” Matsuoka continues, blatantly ignoring Tomoya’s growing distress as a perfectly cheerful smile plays on his lips. “We don’t want you exploding on the track.”

Tomoya pales drastically. “Why does everyone say that!?”

* * *

  
A few hours later they roll the bike out to the track without incident, Tomoya’s fingers tingling still. In a way he gets what Matsuoka meant by work being work--he can’t deny that it’d been frustrating here and there, especially when Matsuoka started using technical terms--but at the same time, there’s a stunning new feeling of knowing what’d happened to get his bike into the shape it is now. Tomoya looks down at his Harley and the number 47 on it, looks at how it shines under natural sunlight, and looks back at Matsuoka as he trails after him to offer a happy grin. Matsuoka catches this, chuckles, and offers him a smile and a little sideways tilt of his head in return.

What Tomoya’d learned was that the work is meticulous; that Matsuoka takes every single bit of the motorbike apart to check every little thing and polish each metal piece to shining. The less dirt is in a bike, the smoother it’ll go, and with an expression Tomoya dares to call soft Matsuoka had admitted _I want my racer to have the best bike on the team_.

And isn’t that a funny thing-- _his_ racer--though Tomoya supposes he can’t say it isn’t true. In the same way Shin has that girl Tomoya hasn’t met yet, Tomoya has Matsuoka: Matsuoka who walks with his hands in his pockets and with a terrible posture, whose legs seem to be bowed and whose feet point at funny angles whenever he takes a step. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched on Matsuoka’s nose now, his cap on backwards, and while half of Tomoya mourns the fact that his face is obscured, the other half of him gets mad about it mattering.

The sun is relatively high in the sky, but it isn’t late enough for the circuit crew to be working on preparations for the race in the afternoon. The track itself is still open for any stragglers wanting somewhere to play before the big event; meanwhile, Tomoya feels a little selfish for how happy he is that nobody else is here but them.

“All right,” Tomoya says, swinging his leg over the bike and sitting down. He secures his helmet on his head, gives it a hearty pat, and turns to offer Matsuoka a smile. “Let’s hope this baby runs the way she’s gotta.”

Matsuoka’s nose crinkles. “Nothing’s going to be wrong with it, though.”

“It’s the thought that counts!”

So he puts the bike into ignition, listening to the engine growl in awakening and then purr in satisfaction. It feels different like this; perhaps not in general feeling, nor in the way the bike is beneath him or how it rumbles against his thighs, but in the sense that Tomoya knows it sounds so good because of what he and Matsuoka had done _together_. Small a gesture it is, tiny a detail it is, but it causes satisfaction to curl in the corner of Tomoya’s heart regardless.

Matsuoka stands the standard safety measure away. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s never sounded this good before in my life,” Tomoya replies, and even though Matsuoka’s eyes are hidden, the white of his teeth tell Tomoya enough of the proud grin on the other man’s face.

“As expected,” Matsuoka says, chest puffing with pride as his posture straightens. “Good. Now give that thing a whirl, Nagase. Let’s see if she runs as good as she sounds.”

Tomoya laughs, tilting his head back and turning to look Matsuoka’s way. “I thought nothing was gonna be wrong with it?”

But Matsuoka expected that, and he bends forward just a bit to tease, “It’s the thought that counts.”

* * *

  
Naomi thumps her little fist on Tomoya’s nose and Tomoya makes a little ‘ow!’ noise just to make her giggle. The air smells like chocolate chip cookies being baked to perfection; in the kitchen just a few metres away from where Tomoya sits on the couch with Naomi, Taichi does dishes in the sink.

“Y’know, you encourage her to be violent like that and she’ll be punching boys for real,” Taichi snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. Tomoya sets Naomi back down on his lap in response, feeling her squirm against him while she whines about wanting to fight more. It takes picking Anpanman up and making his stuffed toy fist punch Naomi in the face for her to stop whining, but she fights the tragic hero with all the scrappy willpower of a puppy backed in a corner.

Tomoya grins. She’s so god damn cute. “I thought you want her to punch boys?”

“Yeah, sure, but not when that boy is her daddy.”

The sink stops running, and moments after that Taichi’s coming over to pick Naomi up and carry her in his arms. Unlike Tomoya, she doesn’t greet him with a punch--a tiny kiss is pressed to Taichi’s cheek--but he’s pretty sure that has something to do with the fact that Taichi’s her dad.

“I don’t think she’s gonna punch you any time soon, Taichi-kun.” Tomoya scoots over to give Taichi some space, and down he plops onto the sofa with Naomi babbling absently on his lap. Not once do Taichi’s big hands leave her, save for one being used to point at the television, and when Naomi’s attention is caught by the screen it stays; she watches with big eyes and an open mouth, a little hand coming up to press to her lips.

Taichi smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, then leans his head back until it lands on the backrest. “So?” He turns. “How’d that race last weekend go?”

“Oh!” Tomoya stops watching Naomi to look at her father instead, shooting a thumbs up and a determined nod. “It was great! Got seventh place this time, but this race was a notch harder than the other one so I didn’t expect to do as good.” He beams, rubbing the side of his neck. “Shin-chan saved us at the end--he came in fourth--so we moved on to the next round and that’s happening next month.”

“Huh.” Taichi’s lips pucker, head nodding. “Look at you, Mr. Go-getter.”

“Coming from you, that’s kind of a big deal.”

“I’m glad you cherish me so much.”

Tomoya laughs at the same time Taichi waggles his brows at him; Naomi doesn’t care in the least, but that’s how these things are supposed to go, anyway. Shifting the toddler on his lap has Naomi clambering off and resting her head on Taichi’s thigh to watch her movie, but otherwise she’s too engrossed in it to complain.

“I’m learning how to do bike stuff, too,” Tomoya mentions, legs spreading in comfort and his body slumping to the side. His head lands on Taichi’s shoulder, Taichi makes some grunt in return, and then the reaction passes and they stay that way, comfy and easy. “I have my own mechanic, see, for my bike, and this guy’s _pro_ level.” His hands lift, fingers curled the slightest bit towards his palms like claws. “He used to work for MotoGP teams, so you can imagine how cool it is he’s my guy now. All LSR even does is small-time track races! I don’t think Shin-chan plans on us going national level or anything, he probably wouldn’t have the time, so I’m not sure what anyone who’d gone worldwide would want out of such a tiny team.”

Taichi’s cheek rests atop Tomoya’s head. “Who knows?”

“I’m just curious,” Tomoya admits. Bright animated characters flit across the television screen, and he’s got to admit for small kids like Naomi it’s got to be an enticing thing to look at. “I mean, when I think about it--like, if JURIA got famous? I wouldn’t wanna give up all that to suddenly be a nobody again, not after all the suffering.”

“But JURIA didn’t get famous,” Taichi points out. “JURIA sold pretty okay with their first album, sold enough to stay afloat with the second, and then screwed up so bad on the third only their most die-hard fans thought it was worth buying.”

Tomoya winces at the memory. “Thanks, man.” The incident happened years ago, but it’s still a particularly sore spot for him. Being a musician had been his childhood dream, though as it turns out, songwriting is a lot harder than the Beatles made it look. Tomoya could play guitar riff after guitar riff, but with lyrics that’re essentially vocal horseshit, anything he churned out was pretty much crap.

“Dude, I’m just saying--as your former manager, you guys were not doing well on the musical front.” Taichi shrugs, clear-cut and simple, and when Naomi stands and says ‘bathroom’, he gives her a little push towards the direction of the hall. “But you all had a good attitude and that’s what the fans liked, so it’s not all that bad, is it? At least you know you aren’t an asshole.”

“I guess so,” Tomoya agrees, his right thigh starting to jump up and down. “Still doesn’t explain why Matsuoka-san quit the MotoGP.”

“Maybe there isn’t a big reason or anything,” Taichi offers in consolation. He lets out a yawn soon after, free hand moving to scratch his tummy where it peeks beneath his shirt. “Maybe he was just tired of it. Giving up a career for happiness isn’t so out of this world any more.”

“I guess so,” Tomoya says a second time. Taichi gives Tomoya’s knee a reassuring squeeze before getting up on his feet. “Don’t think about it too much, Nagase. The cookies are done, so let’s focus on that instead.”

And true enough, the oven timer rings. Taichi walks over to take the tray out, thick mitts on his hands and all, and is just about done putting all the cookies on a plate when Naomi comes back into the living room with her knuckles in her mouth. Taichi rushes over to scold her, gently pulling her hand out with a shake of his head, but Naomi’s so transfixed on the cookies she doesn’t seem to mind.

Taichi hands her one with a paper towel wrapped around the bottom, but instead of eating it, Naomi walks the distance to give it to Tomoya instead.

Something in Tomoya melts about how tiny her hand is, how big the cookie looks in her strong grip, but he smiles and takes it. “Thank you, Naomi-chan.”

* * *

  
The vibration of the engine under his legs is perfect. It’s another bright and sunny day, the track stretches out before him, and Tomoya’d come early to tune his motorbike up with Matsuoka again a few hours ago. If he turns to his left he’ll see Matsuoka standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest and the reassurance, while subtle, is comforting in some way. The thought of it makes him smile.

To his right, Aki gives a harsh rev of his engine, proud and ready. Shin’s somewhere up front, but that’s because he got third place, and Tomoya mentally wishes him good luck. Another teammate, number 14, is behind both him and Aki, and while they’ve never really spoken Tomoya knows he’s going to do his best, too.

The announcer speaks. The starting pistol is lifted.

A shot rings in the air and Tomoya shoots forward in a breeze.

* * *

  
“That was just _mental_ , dude!” Aki yells, drunk and laughing and his arm wrapped around Tomoya while he grins like a cheese. Shin rolls his eyes, but he does smile as he reaches for another cold one. Gonzo, number 14, laughs his own laugh as he tries to pry Aki off of Tomoya’s person; Aki whines and touches Gonzo’s face, moaning about how distressed he is that Gonzo isn’t a pretty woman, but is otherwise fine. This might be the first time Tomoya’s ever spent time with the third member of LSR, but given that he balances the life of a salaryman with the life of a racer, he can imagine why he doesn’t come too early or leave too late to races. At least he holds Aki steady while he giggles into his shoulder.

“I think I did pretty okay,” Tomoya says sheepishly.

“Don’t be modest, Tom,” Shin scolds, taking a few gulps of his beer and reaching for the dried squid on the table. “You came in second--that’s a big deal! Sure, Aki came in third, but we don’t really talk about _his_ accomplishments.”

“Hey!” Aki slurs, but Gonzo shushes him with a piece of squid.

Tomoya grins, taking a picture of them with his phone. “I don’t know--I can’t say it was all ‘cause of me or anything.” He sets it down in favour of reaching for more of the snacks on the table, dipping them in vinegar and popping them into his mouth. The crunch is fantastic and Tomoya tingles all the way down his spine. “Gotta give the bike some credit, too,” he indicates, then pauses to add, “and Matsuoka-san for taking care of it so nicely.”

“Oh, hey,” Gonzo remarks around Aki’s octopus arms on his neck, “Matsuoka-san.” His brows furrow. “Never actually got to talk to him.”

“You haven’t talked to _anyone_ ,” Shin says, kicking at Gonzo’s shin for emphasis. Gonzo smiles and ducks his head away from Aki’s nuzzling.

“He’s really cool,” Tomoya promises. “He’s legitimate pro level--MotoGP and all--so he can take my bike apart and put it together in, what, fifteen minutes?” His voice rises in pitch a little, his lips curving up into a bright smile. “He’s amazing… and real interesting to talk to, too.”

“Talk to?” Shin repeats.

“Yeah.” Tomoya perks up, making a little grabby motion for some beer and watching as Gonzo expertly reaches over despite the heavy weight of Aki at his side. With a gracious ‘thanks’, Tomoya pops the tab open, washing the taste of salt and seafood and sourness out of his mouth. “I’ve been coming to the track early to help him do things with my bike, so we get to talk a little between work. It’s a serious learning experience, man.”

Shin’s mouth forms some version of a grin. “Wow, Tom. Didn’t think you had it in you,” he says, and Tomoya almost replies if not for Gonzo interjecting.

“How about off-track?” he asks.

Tomoya’s head tilts. “Off-track--?”

“Like--damn it, Aki--” Gonzo pushes the other man’s face away to a great measure of argument, but apparently the sight of the squid on the table has Aki’s fingers moving out to grab a handful and start eating instead. Tomoya can’t help but think his attention span reminds him of Naomi. “--you know, like friends. You should invite him to our after-race drinks next time.”

“What--” Somehow the prospect of it has Tomoya’s cheeks warming, but he attributes it to the beer he’s already drank two-thirds’ of. “Eh, I thought this was supposed to be a just-us thing?”

“You kidding me?” Gonzo scoffs. “Trust me, if Shin here could get Mariko to even think of him as anyone other than her employer, she’d be here.”

“Mariko…” Tomoya trails off, but a little turn of his head and the sight of Shin clearing his throat into his fist tells him enough about that matter. “Seriously? You want me to take Matsuoka-san with me?”

Gonzo shrugs, smiling as he moves to light up a cigarette. Aki burps after a hefty gulp of beer, but he does offer a grin and a thumbs-up. “Yeah, Tom!”

“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” Shin accuses, waving a hand in front of Aki’s flushed, drunken face. In turn Aki pushes that hand away with a huff. “You gotta stop bullying me!”

“But do you know?”

Aki grins sheepishly, putting both hands on his lap and dipping his head. “No.”

Shin’s shaking his head from side to side while Gonzo laughs. Tomoya looks at the squid left on the plate and takes it, dipping the last piece in vinegar.

* * *

  
The handkerchief rubbing against his face is unexpected, but Tomoya’s embarrassed all the same by the blush that appears on his cheeks.

“You had grease there, idiot,” Matsuoka tells him.

“Sorry,” Tomoya says in reply, and when he notices Matsuoka’s expression turning mildly concerned, he shakes his head and waves his head in front of him. “I’m fine, I’m fine!”

“You know what I said about spacing out,” is all Matsuoka warns, and Tomoya laughs awkwardly and nods his head. Attention--he’s got to pay attention.

They work on his Harley in relatively comfortable silence, or at least it’s comfortable on Matsuoka’s end. Tomoya keeps glancing at him, keeps biting the inside of his cheek, and then tells himself to quit it--to not be so freaking _weird_ about it, because what the hell could go wrong? Shin said it was okay, Gonzo was the one who suggested it, Aki was drunk as hell so whatever opinion he might’ve had doesn’t matter (now he’s starting to sound like Shin), and Matsuoka is… cool. Tomoya’d said so himself.

But it’s the fact that he’s so cool that makes this so _hard_. He presses his lips into a thin line and releases, then repeats this action a couple more times. Tomoya does it again and again until Matsuoka finally puts the pieces in his hand on the floor and looks over at him with a raised brow; Tomoya pretends he doesn’t see and keeps on working.

“Are you sick or something?” Matsuoka asks regardless, cutting straight to the point. “Maybe chapped lips? I have chapstick for that, you know.”

 _Indirect k--_ “No, no!” Tomoya answers, throat tightening as he fumbles with the metal in his hand and tries to fit it in the right space. “No, I’m not sick, I promise.” Matsuoka doesn’t look convinced. “And it’s not that my lips are dry! They’re doing just fine, Matsuoka-san.”

“So what’re you doing that for?”

“Doing what for?”

“That,” Matsuoka says plainly. “The thing with your mouth.”

Being called out so bluntly makes Tomoya’s face warm again, but he laughs to quell any instantaneous want to run away. He hopes his sheepish expression works--that Matsuoka won’t dismiss him as some weirdo--and then puts on his best attempt at earnest truth. “I just, ah… I was talking to the guys, you know, after our last race.”

“Uhuh.”

“And I said that… we’ve been working together.”

Matsuoka actually pauses at that, and for a moment Tomoya thinks it’s because he’s mad. Instead of yelling, however, Matsuoka takes the cylinder in Tomoya’s fingers and fits it into the bike himself. More relieved than anything, Tomoya swallows the spit that’d built up in his throat.

But what comes after Matsuoka purses his lips is surprising. “What, were they against it?”

“Huh?”

“Did they not like that we were talking?” Matsuoka clarifies, pulling his glasses off and cleaning them with the hem of his shirt. His brows are furrowed the slightest bit while he looks down; Tomoya might think he was trying to concentrate, but given they aren’t doing anything, that can’t possibly be it. “I guess it’s pretty unprofessional to talk so casually outside of work--”

“No!” Tomoya interrupts, shaking his head. “No, no! Matsuoka-san, it’s the complete opposite. They told me to _invite_ you.”

Matsuoka’s hand stops moving. “Invite me?”

“Yeah,” Tomoya insists. “Like… to drinks and stuff. After the race. We usually go out to a bar, eat some seafood and drink some beer…” Matsuoka’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his position save for the way he brings his glasses back up to rest on his nose. Tomoya bites his lip, his head tilting a little to watch for any particular signs of agreement or disagreement, but Matsuoka doesn’t smile _or_ frown.

After a few moments of consideration, he says, “Sure.”

And Tomoya blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Matsuoka picks up the pieces he’d put down, once more affixing them to the bike and picking a wrench up to seal the deal. “You’re going to be there, right?”

Tomoya nods, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I’m going to be there,” he promises.

“Nice,” Matsuoka replies, picking a screwdriver up and shoving it into Tomoya’s palm. “Now get back to work, moron.” The corners of his mouth tug up, the expression charming and handsome and the perfect complement to the brighter quality of his eyes. “What’re we gonna do if you explode out there?”

“I’m not gonna explode!” Tomoya yells, but his grin never disappears.

* * *

  
And just like that, things become easy. Gonzo’s the one who makes it to the top five next, having won fifth place by a hair, and this sends Land Snail Racing on their way to the fifth round. As promised, Matsuoka goes drinking with them after, and while he starts out awkward and polite, his fourth beer or so gets him singing--going so far as to stand on the table and give his best impression of Eikichi Yazawa (“I love him!” Matsuoka had declared, voice booming throughout the bar and his head pushing into Tomoya’s shoulder with a grin once he moved to hide it). It’s a fun thing, a cheerful thing, and by the end of the night the entire team’s got Matsuoka’s number in their mobile phones for any future excursions (Tomoya, while Matsuoka wasn’t looking, punched him in as ‘Masahiro’).

Now they’re walking from the bar, Matsuoka’s arm around Tomoya’s shoulder and Tomoya’s arm curled protectively around his waist. It’s remarkable how much the other man drank, but Tomoya’s just happy he had fun doing it.

“Where do you live?” Tomoya asks as they stand on the sidewalk, getting up on his tiptoes and watching for any passing cabs. Matsuoka lets out a low hum in response, leaning a little heavier against him, but Tomoya keeps himself stiff and steady to make sure they don’t topple over.

“Yokohama,” Matsuoka says, laughing a bit after he speaks, a hand lifting to touch his throat. “Ah… my voice, it’s weird. I sound weird.”

Tomoya grins. “You drank a lot.”

“I did.”

“You sang on a table.”

“I…” Matsuoka laughs once more, looking over at Tomoya with a surprised gleam in his eyes. “I did?”

“You did,” Tomoya agrees, and he can’t stop himself from giggling at the memory, either--that and the way Matsuoka makes some weak, embarrassed sound after he confirms it. “I took a video of it and everything too, just to make sure you won’t be able to deny it.”

“I must’ve looked like a giant idiot,” Matsuoka gripes.

“Actually--” Tomoya nudges him a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. “--I thought you were great.”

In return Matsuoka snickers, the arm around Tomoya’s shoulders giving a little squeeze. It sends warmth over Tomoya’s skin; it doesn’t matter that he’s wearing several layers of clothing. In some instinctive gesture Tomoya almost leans into Matsuoka’s hold, but resists well enough before it becomes too obvious, the inside of his throat running dry instead. “You’re too nice,” Matsuoka says to him, none the wiser, “or really easily impressed? Dunno which one I prefer, but…”

“As long as Matsuoka-san doesn’t mind, then we can say I’m both,” Tomoya teases, hoping that the pink on his cheeks can be attributed to the cold around them or the alcohol they drank, but the way Matsuoka looks at him after--well, maybe he can’t tell Tomoya’s blushing at all.

His glasses have fogged a little, but his eyes become crescents as he grins. “Then both it is.”

They stay standing like that, Matsuoka swaying every so often until Tomoya moves to steady him. Every cab that passes by seems to be full already, but given they’re in a popular district, it’s not like Tomoya can expect anything else. Sometimes Matsuoka will swear at them as they pass by-- _fucking shits, god damn bastards, assfuck shitty lazy piece of shit drunkards_ \--and Tomoya will laugh, and no matter how many minutes pass or how many variations of _shit_ Masahiro says, it never seems to get old.

“You know,” Tomoya says after maybe the ten minute mark, resisting yet another giggle as Matsuoka squints in accusation at another cab rushing away, “I can take you home if you don’t mind telling me where you live.”

Matsuoka snorts. “What, you live near Yokohama or something?”

“ _In_ Yokohama, actually,” Tomoya says, chipper and bright, and the way Matsuoka’s expression changes from deadpan to amazed is something he wishes he had on video, too.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“Because--” But Tomoya’s interrupted by Matsuoka swaying and hobbling along, his hand slipping to clasp Tomoya’s in a firm grip. Stupefied (and relishing the warmth of it, just a little), Tomoya returns that hold, his heart leaping up in his throat. His brain wrinkles at the sensation of it--that’s weird--but all the same he follows in Matsuoka’s footsteps, the back of his neck starting to prickle with heat.

It takes some guts, but Tomoya clears his throat and says, “Matsuoka-san?”

“Hm?”

“I parked my car the other way.”

* * *

  
All in all, the drive itself is uneventful. Matsuoka’s reached a level of drunk mixed with a level of tired that can only result in him practically conking out in the passenger seat, and while it proves to make the whole thing a silent affair, Tomoya finds it more adorable than bothersome. At stoplights he catches himself looking, stealing glances of Matsuoka’s softened features and the way his glasses are slipping off his nose, and under a particularly orange streetlight he realises that Matsuoka’s already got some facial hair growing in. Tomoya tells himself it’s because he’s worried--that even though Matsuoka’s belted in, maybe he’ll hurt his neck somehow and Tomoya will have to adjust him--but in the end, all he can really conclude is that Matsuoka’s cute when he’s sleeping.

Matsuoka lives in a nice neighbourhood--the kind where there’s a convenience store only a three minute walk away from where everyone lives. Tomoya rolls his car through these darkened streets with a curious expression, and in a feat of incredible multitasking he does his best to pay attention to each house number he passes.

“Number 1101,” Tomoya murmurs under his breath once he sees it: gold numbers sparkling in the dimly lit night. Then he sees the rest of the house and takes in a sharp breath.

Matsuoka’s home is spacious, complete with a gated front garden and a garage, but Tomoya has to admit he isn’t surprised. He can’t even begin to imagine how much Matsuoka used to earn before--how much he must’ve saved over the years--and the clean design, the economic size, the straight lines and neutral colours, all tell him that Matsuoka at least knew how to use his money. Usefulness and style; in his mind his image of Matsuoka becomes even cooler.

Tomoya looks away and touches the sleeping man in his car, gently tapping him on the shoulder. “Matsuoka-san?” And if he thought Matsuoka’s sleeping face was precious, seeing him twitch and grumble is even cuter.

 _Dangerous_ , his mind says.

“We’re here,” his mouth says.

Matsuoka’s head dips down, his eyelids shutting hard. “Wuh?” His glasses fall off entirely and land on his lap in the process, but he picks those up and holds them in clumsy fingers. Tomoya smiles a bit and points at the house just beyond the open passenger window. “This is it, right?”

Matsuoka puts his glasses back on, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He squints, and then recognises: “Oh, shit. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Tomoya says, and he chuckles only a little.

“Damn, Nagase--sorry for knocking out on you.” Matsuoka undoes his seatbelt and yawns. “I didn’t know I was that far down… uh.”

Tomoya shakes his head. “No problem,” he assures. “I’m just glad you got home okay. Can you go in on your own?”

“Yeah,” Matsuoka answers after some delay. He feels his pockets, patting at his thighs, and then visibly relaxes when he brushes over his keys. “Slept some of the booze away--anyone ever tell you your car’s comfy as hell?”

“No.” Tomoya laughs, his hand lifting and curling into a fist for him to clear his throat into.

“Well,” Matsuoka starts, opening the door, “they gotta start. Your air freshener’s great.” Then his legs slip out, he stands to his full height, and to Tomoya’s amazement, he remains standing without even the slightest wobble. “And your seats were nice… that leather’s gotta be A-grade.”

Tomoya’s still laughing. “Are you seriously complimenting me on my car?” he asks, disbelieving.

Not skipping a beat, Matsuoka says, “In my line of work, that’s pretty much the highest honour you could ever get.” He straightens his jacket, looks over to his house, and lets out a little huff. “But… I guess you were an okay driver if I stayed conked out the whole time. Thanks, Nagase.”

“Any time,” Tomoya assures, and the way Matsuoka looks at him when he turns back to say goodbye has his heart doing that funny thing again.

There’s a pause--Tomoya wonders if Matsuoka’s going to say good night or just go in, and then is surprised when he does neither and sticks his head in through the open passenger window instead.

“Text me,” is what Matsuoka says.

“What?”

“Like… message me.” Matsuoka reaches his arm in to give Tomoya a light smack to the forehead; Tomoya’s eyes close on instinct as he’s hit, then open again as astounded as they were when they shut. “You got my number, right?”

“Yeah.” Tomoya’s throat is going all tight and dry and he tells himself _stop being weird!_ “Yeah, I have your number, but…”

“But what?”

“... I’m not good at the whole texting first thing.”

“Oh.” Matsuoka blinks at that, then gives a few nods. “I see. No problem.”

Tomoya’s about to ask what he means by that, but Matsuoka’s already pulled back from the window and started to walk to his front gate. He doesn’t turn back, much to Tomoya’s distress; in fact, Matsuoka walks with his head bowed, pointedly deciding not to look at anything. An apology wells up his throat as Matsuoka sticks the key to his gate in, but something on his dashboard vibrates and distracts Tomoya aptly enough for him to pick his phone up instead.

 _Masahiro: Texted you first_ , it says on the lock screen.

Tomoya looks to where Matsuoka’s standing, but the front gate swings shut with a soft creak. His phone buzzes in his hand again, and with nowhere else to focus, he dips his head and glances down at it.

_Masahiro: Now you don’t have a choice but to text back, do you?_

* * *

  
Tomoya loves the smell of sea salt. Had loved it even before he started riding bikes.

His toes dig into cool sand, arms wrapped around his knees, and he’d swim if not for the fact that he hasn’t got anything to wear. He’s content like this, though, sitting in the sunshine--that is, until a shadow falls over him.

Looking up has Tomoya smiling and greeting, ”Hey, Gussan.”

“Hey, shortstack.” An inside joke, if only because Tomoya’s got almost twenty centimetres on him, but Tatsuya sits by Tomoya’s side all the same and offers him a can of pop cracked open. When Tomoya takes a drink of it he tastes strawberry, and he licks the taste off his mouth and holds it in two of his hands, quietly pleased that he’d gotten his favourite flavour.

The can is already sweating, likely because of the heat, but Tomoya doesn’t mind.

“Leader looks like he’s got a lot of work to do,” he mentions, grinning cheekily as he points to where Joshima throws a frisbee back and forth with a little girl. Tatsuya lifts his head a little more to see, then lets out a scoff in reply. “Shige’s gotten even tanner than me, have you noticed?” The mild annoyance is clear in his tone, but Tomoya’s known his two friends long enough that Tatsuya’s going to smile two seconds after. “And he’s never had to get in the water even once. The lifeguard who can’t swim--” _There’s_ the smile. “--is tanner than the one who actually saves lives out there.”

“Y’know Leader’s always wanted to be a dad,” Tomoya offers.

“Yeah,” Tatsuya agrees, sighing, “but he doesn’t have to play with literally everyone who looks lonely, either. What if he pisses yakuza off one day?”

Tomoya giggles. “You think someone like Leader could piss anyone off?”

Tatsuya looks at him, deadpanning, “Maybe if he told his puns.”

And Tomoya knows that it’s mean to laugh at that, but he’s got to admit that Tatsuya’s got a point. Tatsuya grins, pleased his joke made its mark, but as he’s never one to dwell he holds his hand out without delay. “So? Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Your phone.” Tatsuya’s hand curls and uncurls in a ‘give it to me’ motion, and just the mention of the word ‘phone’ has Tomoya’s face going hot.

Until Tatsuya presses his can of pop to Tomoya’s face and he jerks back in surprise. “Hey!”

“No spacing out,” Tatsuya scolds, clicking his tongue. “What’s this about the loser you were texting? Why won’t you give me your phone?”

“He’s not a loser!” Tomoya whines, rubbing the cold water off his face. “He’s my _mechanic_ , and he’s really cool, like... he’s all smart and mature, and he knows all these old songs and likes all these weird movies, and he’s funny when he’s drunk, and he’s really good at cooking, it looks like, and he doesn’t know how to use a computer but he texts first every morning and…”

The memory of it makes his cheeks warm again--that first night from weeks ago, the first message that popped up on his screen. The last time he checked, his lock screen had _Masahiro: What do you mean you know a lifeguard who doesn’t swim_ on it, and while Tomoya itches to message back, he’s sure Tatsuya would peek over his shoulder the whole time.

“And you have a crush on this guy.”

Tomoya’s throat closes up again. “I--!”

“You can’t even lie about it,” Tatsuya remarks with a laugh, and this time he puts his can down to hold both his hands out. “Come on, come on. Show me his texts!”

Tomoya shakes his head furiously, almost violently, and now the burn on his cheeks is intense. _A crush_ , Tatsuya said, and somehow affixing those words to it makes everything that’s happened so far ten times clearer--and ten times worse. Watching Matsuoka sleep, seeing him smile, putting his first name into his phone, telling everyone he knows how amazing he is--

The fact that half his brain is focused on the promise of texting Matsuoka again--

“No!” Tomoya yells when Tatsuya lunges forward in an attack, his can of pop held over the top of his head as he tries to dodge it. Some of it spills out, of course, but Tatsuya refuses to be deterred; he pats at Tomoya’s pockets quickly, reaches into his left one, and finally pulls his phone out with a triumphant grin.

Tomoya says it again: “ _No!_ ”

Tatsuya pauses. He looks at the phone in his hand, looks at Tomoya’s face (and this is where Tomoya ramps up how pathetic he looks, praying to god he hits a merciful bone in Tatsuya’s body), then takes another look at the phone in final deliberation.

He sighs, sitting down and handing it Tomoya’s way. Then he leans his back against Tomoya’s bicep and takes a big swig of pop, his cheek resting against his shoulder. “Can I at least see a picture?”

* * *

  
The word _crush_ thrums in Tomoya’s head. It rings with all the consistency of a million bells, loud and clanging and taking over his life, and has been since Tatsuya said it out loud that one sunny day. After he showed his friend a picture of Matsuoka (or rather, a picture of the both of them; Matsuoka didn’t understand the concept of ‘front camera’ but sure warmed up quick to seeing the two of them on one screen), Tatsuya whistled and yelled for Joshima to come. And sure enough, the memory of his Leader nearly tripping in the sand in a furious attempt to run is already so embarrassing on the forefront Tomoya isn’t sure how to deal with it.

It only gets more embarrassing because he can remember with absolute clarity how Joshima’s eyes brightened. He can remember how excited he became, how he couldn’t believe that when Tomoya said he was ‘having fun’ with his new job he was actually ‘having fun like that’. Tatsuya laughed then, and Tomoya was so mortified he found himself unable to do little more than bury his face in his hands, but still all Joshima could do was sway gently and simply from side to side, happy and proud.

“He’s awfully handsome,” Joshima said, admiring the picture.

The worst thing is that Tomoya blindly (face still covered) answered him with, “He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met.”

 _Hottest guy…_ This echoes in Tomoya’s head too, but in a worse manner because Tomoya can hear it in his own voice. He’d acknowledged it himself--that he found Matsuoka attractive, that he found him the most attractive--and somehow it’s changed everything. So he holds his phone with two hands, his palms sweating uncomfortably, and with his teeth digging into his lip his gaze shifts from the screen beneath him reading _Masahiro: At the tracks, where are you?_ to the garage area where Matsuoka’s no doubt waiting inside.

Today is the fifth race. Tomoya hasn’t seen Matsuoka since bringing him home.

He gulps, pushes the door to the garage open, and tries to keep his cool when Matsuoka turns and greets him with a pleased grin. “Hey!”

It shouldn’t be normal, Tomoya thinks, to get this attached to someone so quickly--to find them so fascinating without knowing enough. But when Matsuoka tosses him a rag for them to get to work on polishing the metal parts, when Matsuoka asks Tomoya how his sleep went, when Matsuoka says that he prepared a bento today for Tomoya to eat-- _you know, for energy_ \--he realises that normal or not, for the most part he’s just glad to see Matsuoka so happy.

(A tiny voice in Tomoya’s mind wonders: is Matsuoka happy because of _him_?)

In the middle of his wandering mind, Matsuoka lowers a box of bolts in front of Tomoya’s face. “Look,” he says, and Tomoya’s so out of it he barely recognises what it is until he’s told out loud, “these bolts are lighter than the old ones we used, but they’re exactly the same size at a higher durability. You know what that means?”

“Not really,” Tomoya admits once he’s caught himself, a sheepish expression coming up, and his eyes shut closed just before he feels the tell-tale smack of Matsuoka’s hand on his forehead.

“Okay, well, see,” Matsuoka starts, pulling a bolt out and setting the box down on the floor, “this is lighter, right? On its own it’s only lighter by, what, probably a fifth of a gram compared to the old bolts we were using, but when you put together how many bolts we use in total, it takes off at least five whole grams off your weight.”

“Uhuh.” Tomoya’s brows pull together. “Which means…”

“Which _means_ ,” Matsuoka snorts, “you’ll be able to go faster, genius.”

“But that’s just five grams.”

“And it makes a huge difference--” Maybe Tomoya should be listening more, but as it is he’s really just watching the way Matsuoka tosses the bolt from hand to hand like a trick; Matsuoka frowns a little at him, pokes his nose lightly with it, and Tomoya flinches back in surprise. “--trust me, I’d know.”

And Tomoya agrees, because when it comes to his bike, it’s not necessarily wise for him to argue against the man who works on it at all.

“You’re spacey today,” Matsuoka says as they work, tightening a nut with the wrench before setting the tool aside and picking his rag up again, “more than usual, at least. Something happen?”

 _A crush_ , Tatsuya coos in his head. Tomoya inhales sharply, feels his hands shake, and then determinedly keeps them steady as he rubs his exhaust pipe to shining. “Not really,” he promises, and while Matsuoka gives him a look like he isn’t buying it, Tomoya sticks his tongue out in reply. “Look, if there was something wrong, I’d let you know, right?”

There’s silence for a while. “I don’t know,” Matsuoka says as he picks up another part to polish, rag moving quick and steady in even strokes, “would you?”

Tomoya frowns, keeping his eyes on his work. “Aren’t we friends?”

For what it’s worth, Matsuoka’s gaze doesn’t lift either. “Are we?”

And for a moment, Tomoya panics. Wonders if maybe Matsuoka knows--if he’s figured it out--if maybe whatever precarious dynamic they’d made together has shattered because of Tomoya’s bizarre and unexplainable feelings. But when Tomoya gulps, his head turning to regard the man at his side, it seems Matsuoka’d been watching him all this time, and that serious expression he wears melts into the smile of a man amused.

“I like you, you know,” Matsuoka says.

The words are honest, true. They speak even more volumes with how soft Matsuoka’s eyes become, how full of simple fondness, how the warmth of them is heightened by how round they are. In return Tomoya lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in, relief washing over him like a flood, and with no delay he returns the kindness shown his way.

“I like you too,” he says, smiling.

Then he pauses.

“ _Ehhhh_ \--!?”

* * *

  
Tomoya whines over his Matsuoka-made bento, so engrossed in it he barely even notices Aki pulling a piece of tamagoyaki out. “He asked me out on a date! Who does that?”

“Everyone,” Aki says as he takes a bite out of it. It’s just the two of them now, waiting patiently for the race to start, but Tomoya’s stuck on one image: Matsuoka pushing the bento into Tomoya’s waiting hands with a grin, telling him he’ll see him after.

“But--but, but--b-b-but--” Tomoya’s stammering, reduced to a furious mess of repeating syllables, and he thinks so hard about how it is Matsuoka coaxed a confession out of him his head starts to hurt.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Aki mentions, sucking the bits of oil off his fingers and reaching for the water bottle at his side. He takes a good swig out of it, caps the bottle back closed, and sets it down. Tomoya wishes he could move that easily, but his chopsticks are shaking and he thinks he might puke. “Matsuoka’s a cool guy, you’re kind of dweeby but with merit--what’s the harm in going out with him?”

“We _work_ together!”

“So? You never heard the term ‘fraternising’?”

The fact that Aki knows that word aside, Tomoya groans. “You know that term’s used in a negative way for the most part, right?”

And Aki, in a way no-one would be surprised by, says, “Oh.”

He can’t do this. Looking down at his bento and the perfectly packed rice, the sauteed vegetables to the side, the rolled tamagoyaki, and the tonkatsu, he can’t shake the image of Matsuoka kindly laying everything out for him. He was already at the tracks at an absurdly early hour; what time did he wake up to prepare this? Tomoya’s stomach churns and toils with a hearty mixture of anxiety, excitement, guilt, and joy, but he reaches down for a slice of egg and takes a bite out of it regardless (it’s the least he could do).

That it’s delicious doesn’t escape him. Tomoya’s eyes water a little bit, the back of his hand pressing to his mouth as he shuts them closed.

“Is he okay?” Gonzo asks as he comes over, setting his work briefcase down and undoing the knot of his tie. Aki shrugs and adds, “I think he’ll get out of it.”

But to Tomoya’s credit, he finishes the bento. His heartrate steadies, he goes over the fact that Matsuoka asked him out, and the more he considers the thought of them out together--alone--and all the things they could talk about, all the things they could do, all the smiles Matsuoka might give him--the easier it becomes to handle.

He’s happy when Matsuoka is happy. Maybe that’s all that matters.

With steadier fingers he wraps the bento back up in the cloth Matsuoka used to hold it together, unable to keep himself from brushing his fingers over the light purple fabric. It looks old and worn, sentimental and simple, and the more he touches it, the more in awe he is of how soft it is. How kind. How like its owner it is.

Tomoya stays there a while, thinking of how nice Matsuoka’s been so far, and the reminiscence lasts until Shin calls him over for the next race with a hand ruffling his hair. “Let’s go, Tom.”

So with a full stomach and a quickly beating heart, Tomoya looks up and nods, chirping, “You go ahead!” as he picks the wrapped bento up. Suddenly he feels a little shock start in his chest--he notices the kanji for _Matsuoka_ sewn into the corner, the name formed by his lips and written in his mind--and a goofy smile comes up as he jogs to his bike to roll it out.

Matsuoka himself stands there with it, of course. His fingers are curled loosely over the handle, the bike held up on his strength alone, and when Tomoya returns the tied bento Matsuoka rolls the bike forward towards him in reply.

“I finished everything,” Tomoya says. Matsuoka’s lips quirk up, pleased, and as Tomoya’s own hand takes Matsuoka’s place on the handlebar, their fingers brush together.

“You do good out there.”

Tomoya’s throat dries, but he nods his head. “I’ll do my best.”

Matsuoka grins at him. “You’re my racer, Tomo. You’ll _be_ the best.”

On the way to the track, Tomoya’s cheeks burn. And this time, to calm the nerves in his chest, he thinks not of the sea and that first ride, thinks not of the way the wind had whipped around his body or how the sun had shone, but of the way ‘Tomo’ had sounded in Masahiro’s mouth.

* * *

  
The way Aki looked at them as they left is an image that won’t leave Tomoya’s head. He watched, mortified, as his friend flashed a thumbs up, raised both his eyebrows up and down, and made obscene flicks of his tongue, while to his side Masahiro just laughed and laughed and said, “Fuck you, I kiss better than that!”

Which is to say Tomoya’s left thinking of kissing, how Masahiro must kiss, and that proves to make things very difficult when Masahiro reveals some amazing factoid Tomoya feels he should’ve been told earlier: they’re going to ride a motorbike together.

The helmet on his head is red--Tomoya’s favourite colour--and he finds himself wondering if Masahiro came prepared. Was he planning on asking him out all along? Did he not consider the possibility Tomoya would say no? These things clash and bang in Tomoya’s head in the split-second it takes for Masahiro to buckle the fastenings in, and when he says, “Jeez, you look cute.” all Tomoya can do in return is laugh and say “Quit it!”

It’s different holding onto someone, though. The sensation of Masahiro’s back against his chest is something Tomoya’s never felt before--not with anyone--and along with the familiar sensation of an engine purring beneath his thighs, it makes for quite the combination.

“I didn’t know you rode!” Tomoya shouts around the noise.

“I don’t!” Masahiro tells him, voice cracking towards the end. “I just wanted to impress you!”

Tomoya blushes at that, blushes even harder when Masahiro turns his head back for a split-second to offer him a grin, and then finally grasps himself enough to yell, “Watch the road, you jerk!”, his hands jumping forward to land over Masahiro’s own and steer.

The motion is instinctive; he didn’t catch himself doing it before they landed. But now that they touch skin to skin Tomoya’s breath hitches in his throat, and it gets even more intense when Masahiro takes this opportunity to lean back into him.

Tomoya wishes he could bury his face into something, _anything_ , but the helmet makes that impossible.

Masahiro spreads his fingers out just enough for Tomoya’s to fit between the gaps.

The air smells like the city: the smoke of cars, the various smells of street food, and the ever-present scent of asphalt. But above all that is Masahiro’s cologne, like a blanket, and Tomoya wonders if Masahiro can feel the erratic beat of his heart thumping right against his back.

They ride like this, moving at a leisurely pace straight over streets and turning at corners. It isn’t the rush that Tomoya’s used to--isn’t the taste of the sea and the feel of the wind--but it’s enough for him to smile, enough for him to laugh, enough for him to feel excitement if only because Masahiro’s never ridden a bike before, never even tried, but chose to because it’s something Tomoya loves to do. Something settles in his heart: a stone or a fire or a butterfly, he’s not sure; when they finally stop in front of a patisserie, Tomoya almost feels sorry he has to let go.

But Masahiro holds his hand out to him after he gets off. And Masahiro grins at him, confident and shy all at once. And Tomoya’s embarrassed as all hell--he’s not sure how anyone can look so cute--but how can he say no to that?

* * *

  
Naomi pulls Masahiro’s glasses off and runs away.

“So he’s…” Taichi watches Masahiro gasp and toddle after her, watches as he yells ‘I’m gonna get you!’, watches as Naomi giggles and runs faster and Masahiro doesn’t speed up at all. “… your boyfriend?”

“Sort of?” Tomoya can’t stop smiling, elbows on his thighs and hands on his cheeks as he watches Masahiro go. “I mean, he takes me out on dates sometimes! We don’t really call each other ‘boyfriend’, and mostly we just eat out, and we don’t really kiss or anything like that, but…”

“He’s your boyfriend.” Taichi shoots him a look and Tomoya’s face heats up.

“I… yeah. He is.”

And Taichi lets out a ‘huh’, his arms crossing and his legs crossing at the knee. Metres away from them Masahiro picks up the pace, hands landing on Naomi’s tiny waist and picking her up, and Naomi squeals and screams as he seats her atop his shoulders. Tomoya’s heart quails at the sight: Naomi’s awe, Masahiro’s hands holding hers, the sunlight falling on them just right--it’s picturesque, almost, like the sort of thing people advertise in camera commercials. More than that, though, Tomoya just thinks the sight of his best friend’s kid atop his boyfriend’s shoulders is one of the kindest things he could witness.

Before he realises what his hands are doing he’s moved to snap a picture of it. To his left, Taichi chuckles, and when Tomoya looks at him he has his own phone whipped out, too.

“You ever figure out why he quit the MotoGP?” Taichi asks, tucking the device back into his pocket. Tomoya shakes his head, his arms dropping and his hands back on his lap, and he watches as Masahiro brings Naomi over to a tree. He tip-toes as slowly as he can, reaching his arms up to help the little girl’s fingers brush over a branch, and Naomi giggles as happily as a three year old girl can. She’s probably never felt so tall before.

“We’ve talked a lot,” Tomoya says, fingers twirling his phone in circles, “but never about that, I guess. It just…”

“Stopped mattering the more you got to know him.”

Tomoya laughs, looking down at his phone again, at how he has a purple case around it and how tapping the home button has a picture of a handsome man’s goofy face showing on his lock screen. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Something like that.”

“That’s how people work,” Taichi says with a nod. “You start out finding this one thing that’s cool about them--something attractive, you know?” He turns his body just a little to face Tomoya properly, his hands moving to gesture as he speaks; it looks a little bit like he’s holding invisible eggs in both of them. “Something that makes you want to keep talking. Then you find out more, and more, and this idea you had of them that you thought was brilliant--you realise it was a skeleton all along.

“’cause they’re so much more colourful than that. So much more… _interesting_.”

Tomoya waits for Taichi to say more, but when he doesn’t continue he remarks, “You have a lot more to say about this than I thought.”

“Shit,” Taichi swears, well away from earshot as far as Naomi’s concerned, “that’s why I stayed as your manager even when you guys fucking sucked.”

Tomoya blinks at that, curiosity winning out as he opens his mouth to ask. Taichi catches him, though, and fixes Tomoya with a glare that has him pressing his lips together instead.

He continues without preamble, “You and Yamaguchi and Leader--you guys had heart. And I’m saying, like, you didn’t back down, you know? You were positive about it, you kept trying even when you failed, you wrote these _horrible_ songs but got so proud of just finishing them--”

“Taichi-kun, please.” Tomoya laughs. Every word Taichi speaks is bittersweet.

And Taichi smiles apologetically. “If I’m being honest, I just became your manager ‘cause I was young and stupid and I thought your pretty faces’d carry you through. And… they didn’t, but…”

“But?”

“Look, Nagase, if my kid and I can hang out in a park with you and your weird boyfriend--who you’ve never kissed--and _enjoy_ it, then I gotta say there’s something about you that makes it hard to not want to be _around_ you. And, sure, you don’t got that good a talent for music--” Tomoya pouts and Taichi holds both his hands up in self-defence. “--but I think with the right push you can pretty much do good at anything you try. Even the band thing.”

Taichi smiles and Tomoya smiles back, but all in all it’s a funny thought. He’s doing well as a racer--much better than he ever did as a musician--and he gets to work with his friends, so it’s not like it’s that bad a chore. ‘The band thing’ is something he pushed in the past, something he moved on from. To go back to it so suddenly sounds stupid now that he’s doing so well.

“That being said--” And Tomoya’s surprised out of his thoughts, because he figured Taichi was done talking, but he seems to have a lot to blab about today. “--you really ought to try and kiss that boy one day. Why the hell haven’t you kissed yet?”

“Taichi-kun!” Tomoya squeaks, hands clumsily smacking Taichi’s arms away.

Taichi grins at the same time he reaches one arm out to brush a fist against Tomoya’s cheek. “Go and get ‘em, you gorilla.”

“Get what?” Masahiro asks as he returns, reaching his hands up to pluck Naomi off his shoulders and put her down. “She wants water, by the way.”

On cue two chubby hands reach out, Naomi perking up with a, “Water!”, and in true fatherly nature Taichi’s unable to resist. At the same time he moves to pick the backpack on the grass up, Masahiro sits by Tomoya’s side, an arm slipping around his shoulders with ease.

Naomi glugs and glugs, apparently thirsty after all that running, and once she’s done she looks over at Masahiro with sparkling eyes. “Can we play?” she asks, nearly dropping her jug entirely if not for Taichi’s hands catching them; Masahiro grins because he can’t resist, and he’s about to say ‘yes’ when Taichi stands up instead.

Tomoya’s eyes widen to plate-size. “Matsu-kun’s gonna play with Naga-kun first, if that’s okay.”

“Oh!” Naomi says, head cocking slightly as her gaze shifts to face the men in question. Masahiro doesn’t seem to mind; his fingertips brush absently over Tomoya’s bicep at the same time Tomoya’s cheeks burn and burn--and burn brighter when he feels his boyfriend looking at him, too.

Even from the corner of his eye, the expression on Masahiro’s face tells Tomoya enough about how much he’s figured out. From behind his glasses his eyes are bright with promise, and he pinches Tomoya’s arm once before looking back down at Naomi’s curious face. “Yeah, Tomo and I wanna hang out a bit. But you can play dragon games with your papa too--right, Kokubun-san?” The formality makes Taichi’s nose crinkle, but he does nod his head.

“Okay…” Naomi murmurs, her lips pursing in a child’s version of a pout, but the moment Taichi grabs her hand and starts to take her along, she brightens like the sun.

And Masahiro, bastard that he is, pulls Tomoya a little closer.

“’Go get ‘em’,” he quotes. “What the hell were you and Kokubun-san talking about?”

“You can call him Taichi, you know,” Tomoya says in a pathetic attempt to change the subject. “Everyone calls him Taichi.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s none of your business!”

“But it’s making you blush,” Masahiro points out, and Tomoya opens his mouth and closes it, knowing the red on his cheeks can’t very well be explained as a reaction to the weather. They’re sitting in the shade, after all, and the breeze is really very nice, and Masahiro’s arm is strong and safe and--

The tips of his fingers brush over Tomoya’s jaw, drawing goosebumps. “Are you supposed to be getting me?”

Tomoya’s head turns sharply to look at him, but whatever answer he might’ve had dies in his throat in the wake of Masahiro’s fond smile.

“I… I, uh…”

Almost shyly, Masahiro murmurs, “You think I could get you instead?”

And Tomoya’s about to ask ‘what the hell does that even _mean_ ’, but Masahiro leans in and kisses him and words don’t seem all that important any more.

* * *

  
If he’ll be honest about it, Tomoya can’t get enough; that first kiss had only been a gateway. Every time they have some moment of privacy he’s either pulling Masahiro over or leaning in for a kiss himself, and every time Masahiro will either fall into it or meet Tomoya halfway. It might be becoming a problem--when Masahiro slips into his car Tomoya’s pulling him over the gearshift, when it’s raining hard and they’re under a bus stop roof they’re pecking, when they have a private little table in a corner no-one can see their lips are touching and their tongues are meeting and--

Quite frankly, Tomoya should be disgusted at himself. What self-respecting man in his thirties kisses as often as he does in as many places as he can? He feels like a teenager--excited at the prospect of physical affection, even more excited at the promises that come along with it--and the concept of it makes his insides twist. But Masahiro’s mouth is so warm, and kind, and soft, and the only reason he isn’t kissing him right now is because Mariko’s still in the garage with them.

His thigh is jumping, though. His teeth are worrying his lip. And he ends up fumbling so much Masahiro laughs and gives him a little smack on the forehead, telling him maybe he ought to take a break while he does the rest of the work on his bike.

“But--” Tomoya starts, only for Masahiro to shoo him off. So now Tomoya sits in the corner, his hands on his cheeks and his eyes the slightest bit half-lidded, and he watches with some undeniable case of fondness as Masahiro smoothly fits all the pieces of his bike back together again.

Mariko doesn’t take as long as Masahiro does. She’s standing up and craning her neck once she’s gotten Shin’s bike up and finished checking the engine; Masahiro, meanwhile, has yet to reassemble the front of Tomoya’s bike at all.

Mariko catches Masahiro’s attention with a ‘yo, I’m out’, he lifts a hand towards her in acknowledgement, and Tomoya feels an unhealthy mix of ashamed and excited the moment she’s out of the garage and the door closes shut behind her. They’re alone now, he and Masahiro, and given that privacy can only mean one thing--

“’hiro?” Tomoya calls.

There’s a thudding noise as Masahiro’s wrench drops to the floor, and Tomoya barely has enough time to brace himself before he’s pulled out of his seat and two hands are on his cheeks. Masahiro steps and steps and Tomoya’s back presses to concrete; his lips part, a gasp between them, and Masahiro’s happy to fill that space with his tongue.

Some underlying meaning must be here--kissing in the room their stunningly quick friendship started. Tomoya’s hair is longer than it was when they first met, his chin and jaw clean-shaven, but Masahiro’s stubble brushes against Tomoya’s skin and the contrast makes his toes curl in his shoes. Heat, impossibly subtle, blooms in the pit of his stomach, and when he says Masahiro’s name a second time he feels the shift in position that leads to Masahiro settling between Tomoya’s spreading legs.

Tomoya’s arms wrap loosely around Masahiro’s shoulders, Masahiro’s own hands slipping down Tomoya’s front and gripping his hips, and when their kiss breaks it’s just so Masahiro can look up at him and grin, his hands warm and huge and moving over Tomoya’s thighs to lift them.

On instinct he wraps his legs around Masahiro’s waist. The proximity makes Tomoya shiver, and he doesn’t miss the wash of heat over Masahiro’s own face before their lips meet again.

“Oh--!” Tomoya flinches the slightest bit when Masahiro’s teeth sketch over his lip and across his jaw, evolving to full-out shivering when that draws a chuckle from the man holding him up. “G-God, Masahiro, that isn’t funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” Masahiro purrs, mouth warm over the column of Tomoya’s throat. His tongue rolls against it and Tomoya’s thighs jump up, and while on one hand he ought to be grossed out, on the other he’s just glad Masahiro finds him tasty. “Sensitive little kid.”

“Calling me a kid makes this--” They smooch, Tomoya melts, and he almost loses his train of thought in the wake of Masahiro’s lips dressing his chin with affection. “-- _ah_ \--c-creepy, I was going to say creepy.”

Masahiro laughs. “You just act like a kid, is what I meant.”

“But I’m not a kid,” Tomoya says almost immediately; his fingertips skirt the fascinating lines of Masahiro’s bone structure to draw him closer, though, and get their lips touching once more.

Intimacy. The word for this is intimacy. Masahiro kisses him slow and steady in an essentially empty garage, and Tomoya kisses back because there’s nothing else he’s capable of doing.

“Work,” Masahiro murmurs, the word hot in Tomoya’s mouth.

Tomoya swipes the syllable with his tongue. “What?”

“I have to get back to work.”

“No, you don’t.” Sealed with a kiss, Tomoya relishes the sound of Masahiro’s breath hitching, and when his tongue flicks out he’s pleased to feel Masahiro returning the sentiment with ease.

Unfortunately, he pulls back with a wet sound moments after, groaning into Tomoya’s neck. “Fuck--”

“Here?” Tomoya’s breathless himself, but he wraps his arms tight around Masahiro’s shoulders in a hug. “Really?”

“No, idiot!” Masahiro laughs again, but he does pull back to offer Tomoya a warm smile. “I have to work and you have a race to win.”

“I can’t win if you don’t kiss me.”

“You got first place once,” Masahiro says swiftly, “and all I had to do was call you ‘Tomo’.”

But to his credit, Masahiro leans in to give Tomoya one last peck before pulling away. Tomoya’s feet hit the ground again, his arms slip off, and he resists the mighty urge to pout as Masahiro’s fingertips brush over his cheek and tap over the bone with his thumb.

Then the urge goes away entirely when Masahiro coos, “Now let’s put that bike together so we can kiss more before your race starts.”

* * *

  
The sight before them is one for the ages: Tatsuya at 165 centimetres is standing his ground against Masahiro who’s at a whopping 181.

“This is so stupid!” Taichi says, hiding a grin behind his hand. Tomoya nudges him to shut him up.

“Ready!” Joshima calls. “Let’s have a good match!”

And Tomoya starts to cheer the moment the sumo wrestling starts.

Tatsuya and Joshima, lifeguards extraordinaire, live in a house by the beach they rent. It only works because the owner is their boss and lets them stay free on the condition that some of their pay is cut; neither Tatsuya nor Joshima have any big plans in life, though, so it’s not like they need a lot. And the house comes especially handy when it’s time to celebrate the fact that Land Snail Racing is in the semi-finals.

Joshima met Masahiro once before this occasion at a grocery store--had recognised him from the pictures Tatsuya forced Tomoya to show off that one day and immediately went over to say ‘hello’ like it was normal. Masahiro, ever the charming one, only smiled in return and asked if they’d met before, but all Joshima had to do was say he was friends with Tomoya for any walls Masahiro might’ve put up to be torn down immediately.

Sometimes Tomoya really does wonder about the plausibility of fate; it was thanks to Joshima’s reassurance that Tatsuya let Masahiro come along to their home in the first place.

And now Tomoya cheers as his boyfriend is bodily slammed into sand.

“Go, Gussan, go!” he yells, his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Why aren’t you cheering for me!?” Masahiro yells back, but at this point Tatsuya’s gone into a victory dance beside his fallen body, so it’s not like it makes much of a difference.

Tomoya greets Masahiro with a kiss when he comes over to sit beside him, both his hands on his cheeks. “Nobody beats Gussan, ‘hiro.”

“I can tell.”

Masahiro’s not new to hanging out with Tomoya’s friends, that day with Taichi and Naomi a weighty victory under his belt along with the night spent with Land Snail Racing, but the way he acts with Tomoya’s band friends makes it seem as if he’s known them for years. He barbecues meat over the grill, taking orders like a champ and setting them on a plate that Joshima holds out, laughs at all of Tatsuya’s dirty jokes, and listens as Taichi rambles about his beautiful wife and child. He interacts easily, smoothly, and save for his distress when Tatsuya starts teasing him with a snake he caught in the sand, Masahiro is for all intents and purposes an easily-fitting cog in the machine of what once was JURIA.

The day is filled to bursting with joy--sun and surf and laughter. Masahiro and Tatsuya compete over just about everything, Taichi and Tomoya build castles, and Joshima brings seashells back to decorate them (along with writing little ballads and epics of King Taichi and Sir Tomoya, the Shining Knight). They go swimming, save for Joshima who turns into a merman under Taichi’s expert sand-sculpting hands, and later, when they’re tired and beat and tanned from their fun, Joshima brings out a guitar while Tatsuya sits on a beatbox; Masahiro lights a fire that crackles and reaches for the sky.

It’s a nostalgic thing, seeing Joshima hold a guitar again, but Tomoya doesn’t say this out loud. True to his reputation, however, Taichi points out a “You guys can’t sing.” and gets Tatsuya’s middle finger in response right before bursting into laughter. Joshima scolds Tatsuya for it with a light slap to his wrist, but Tomoya’s laughing at how Tatsuya pouts, at how Joshima’s eyes smile, and how Taichi himself is still laughing; even Masahiro chuckles a little, and without much thought Tomoya presses the smallest kiss to his shoulder.

Still, Joshima starts to play and Tatsuya starts to tap. The song is familiar and old, and while it takes a moment to sink in, Tomoya knows that the look of recognition that flashes across his eyes is the same one Taichi wears. (Masahiro obviously doesn’t know it, but he also doesn’t seem to mind.)

“’Love You Only’?” Taichi claims, crinkling his nose. “Wasn’t that your opening song on the last album? It goes quicker than that.”

“We re-arranged it,” Joshima explains, strums simple and gentle in time with Tatsuya’s thumping. “Made it less childish, more mature. I don’t know why we thought making a pop song was a good idea.”

“Pop is popular,” Tatsuya says.

“Yeah,” Joshima agrees, “but it just wasn’t the JURIA sound, was it?”

Masahiro raises his hand. “What’s the JURIA sound?”

“Dude, we’re not in school,” Taichi teases. “Put your hand down.” So Masahiro does, taking the opportunity to slip his arm around Tomoya’s shoulders and pull him a little tighter.

Tomoya’s cheek thumps onto his shoulder, warm and blushing. “Leader, Gussan, and I wanted to write rock music.”

“Nuh-uh,” Tatsuya pipes up. “That was all you and Shige! I just wanted cash.”

“Well.” Tomoya laughs. “I guess Leader and I wanted to and Gussan’s too cool to want anything. Better?”

“Much.”

“But what’s the JURIA sound?” Masahiro ferrets in.

Joshima strums his guitar a little harder for emphasis. “This, Matsuoka-kun!” And then he returns to an easier pace, leaning to the side and offering Tatsuya a smile. Tatsuya clears his throat and fumbles through a beat, but catches himself after. “This is what we wanted to sound like.”

Masahiro stares. Joshima smiles at him.

“That doesn’t help at all,” Taichi snorts, and Joshima’s shoulders slump at the same time Tatsuya bursts out into laughter. “Oi, Nagase! Sing a little.”

So Tomoya jumps a little, eyes wide. “Eh?”

“The JURIA sound isn’t complete without their vocalist, right?” Taichi offers, and the tone of his voice speaks volumes of how he can’t believe he’s having this conversation at all. “You know how Love You Only goes--wait, does this thing have the same lyrics?”

“Of _course_ it has the same lyrics,” Tatsuya says. “That’s the point of a re-arrange.”

Joshima nods in agreement, then turns to face Tomoya with a smile. “Now you come in.”

Tomoya blinks once more, brain still catching up. “I come in.”

“As in you sing, Nagase,” Taichi says.

“I…” He swallows, momentarily uncertain, but Masahiro gives him a little ruffle to his hair.

“They won’t let it go until you do, Tomo,” he teases, and while Tomoya’s tempted to say _you just want to hear me make a fool of myself_ , he lets out a sigh and smiles up at him because Masahiro’s not necessarily wrong.

It’s been a long while since he last sang for any reason besides showering--a long while since he had Love You Only on the brain. But as Joshima’s fingers shift over the frets and play the opening chord before the lyrics start, Tomoya sings as if on instinct: “ _I’m so in love with you…_ ”

And it feels… good.

He’s rusty, certainly, and on that note, this isn’t even the Love You Only that JURIA recorded for their last album. It’s slower, and it’s lower, and it fits Tomoya’s range a little better, and it sounds so much like a proper love song now--one that isn’t sung by silly boys with no experience--he’s not sure what to think.

In a way, Tomoya always assumed he threw his old life away. He thought that every memory of it was set aside when he bought his very first Harley, but it comes back with a fresh wave of nostalgia, feeling good in his throat and on his tongue even when his voice cracks a bit.

The fire is warm; the night air is cool. The sand is soft under Tomoya’s toes when he wiggles them, and the smiles of his friends give him power in a way he remembers they always did when he was on stage.

Except now there’s more than Joshima and Tatsuya. Now Taichi isn’t backstage with silent support. And now there’s Masahiro, who grips Tomoya a little tighter as he reaches high notes he hasn’t tried to reach in ages.

The song doesn’t last very long; Tomoya finishes with a final _I’m so in love with you_ before burying his face into Masahiro’s arm. But its meaning isn’t any less poignant--on the contrary, Tomoya thinks he feels relieved.

For so long Love You Only was simply the first song in JURIA’s last album: a memory of failure and what could have been. And while Tatsuya and Joshima have always operated on different wavelengths from Tomoya himself, he thinks he understands the re-arrangement this time--understands what it means to have a JURIA sound and why it’s so important.

Pop music for popularity, the rock music they wanted.

His friends are clapping for him, and Tomoya laughs sheepishly and tries to wave at all of them to shut up.

Still, Taichi manages to sneak in a, “Dude, that sounded _so_ much better than the one on the album.”

* * *

  
It’s a little past three in the morning when they stumble into the guest room of Joshima and Tatsuya’s beach house, Tomoya giggling and Masahiro trying to shush him before they fall into bed.

“I haven’t sang that much in so _long_ ,” Tomoya whispers, wrapping his arms around Masahiro’s shoulders at the same time he tilts his head back. Little kisses are pressed to his neck, just enough for Tomoya to squirm and laugh, but Masahiro eventually settles with his face pressing into his chest and his arms curling around Tomoya’s waist.

His voice is low, purring. “You sure? You sounded too good to be inexperienced.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause we’re dating.”

“True,” Masahiro agrees, lifting himself up and kissing Tomoya’s chin. Tomoya laughs again, but he basks in the attention--smiles in the dim light as he runs his fingers through Masahiro’s hair while Masahiro speaks into his jaw. “But also because your voice is the sweetest thing I’ve heard.”

“I think you’re biased,” Tomoya breathes, tugging Masahiro’s head up properly to look at him.

And Masahiro grins, warm and fond. “I think you’re dumb.”

Then he kisses him, and any argument Tomoya has dies on his tongue.

All the while, they’re smiling. Laughing as they kiss and pull back, as their mouths touch and then break away. There’s shyness there, somewhere, but Tomoya’s arms wrap tighter, surer; on the way, Masahiro’s hands drift to grip the back of Tomoya’s neck and the narrow slice of flesh between the hem of his shorts and the end of his shirt.

“It was really,” Masahiro murmurs past their last kiss, their noses touching, “really nice-sounding.”

Tomoya nuzzles him, face and body warm. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you don’t believe me.”

They kiss once more, sweet and happy, and Tomoya isn’t surprised when Masahiro manoeuvres them enough for Tomoya to lie atop him. It’s not like they haven’t flirted with the possibility--they’ve kissed long enough, hot enough, for the want for something more to edge towards the surface, but never quite had the guts, the time, the space for it. But now Tomoya’s gasping into Masahiro’s open mouth, his hands curling into his shoulders, and Masahiro’s hands have stroked high enough along his back that it feels like Tomoya’s shirt is going to be pulled off his body.

A flick of his tongue, and then Masahiro’s lying back, his fingertips brushing along the knobs of Tomoya’s spine. “Lift your arms,” he purrs, “little songbird.”

“I’m taller than you!” Tomoya whisper-shouts, but that’s primarily to take away from the fact that his face is on fire. He knows that it’s dark all around them--that they can only barely make each other out in the black--but there’s a significant difference from being naked for Masahiro in fantasy and being naked for him with the man in the room.

Masahiro pecks him out of his stupor. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but you’re also too shy to get your shirt off without me doing it for you.”

“Why do you--” Tomoya makes some indignant noise. “--why do you want me out of my shirt, anyway?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

Yes, he does, but the sound of Masahiro’s laughter is sweet and honest and Tomoya can’t get enough of it.

“You’re a terrible liar, Tomo,” Masahiro says, and whether Tomoya tugs his arms up or not doesn’t seem to matter. His shirt is pulled higher, and higher, and when the garter of it argues against Tomoya’s shoulders, Masahiro only pulls harder until Tomoya’s arms are forced to lift on their own.

The cotton slips up and off, a whisper over Tomoya’s skin and hair. Masahiro tosses it aside, and Tomoya’s not sure if he’s shivering because of the cold or because of the callused hands that brush over exposed flesh.

“Ah--” Tomoya flinches at the touch of a thumb to his nipple, pressing and then circling, but whatever argument he might’ve made is swallowed by the mouth that so insistently starts to kiss him once more.

Masahiro’s tongue moves slowly, sweetly. It’s nothing Tomoya’s not already used to, not by a longshot, but the addition of fingers pressing and squeezing over his skin is enough to get him light-headed. Masahiro touches him as reverently as he treats him; he leaves no stone unturned, no inch of his torso untouched. The ends of his nails, blunt and curved, crawl down Tomoya’s torso and up his back--Tomoya moans, sighs, and feels himself arch into Masahiro’s touch when his palms slide back down to grip his ass.

Tomoya breaks away just to breathe, whimpering the slightest bit when Masahiro’s hands knead and squeeze. His shorts are tightening, the space between his legs heating, and while his first instinct is to lift his hips away, Masahiro presses down enough for their bodies to be flush together.

“’hiro,” Tomoya breathes.

“Yeah.” Masahiro exhales, and they turn just enough for Tomoya’s back to press into the mattress, his legs falling apart and Masahiro fitting right between them. They’ve been like this multiple times, have been locked in arms and legs so many other occasions besides now, but this time when Tomoya’s back arches and his hips press to the bed, Masahiro’s own hips only press lower, and the feel of another cock pressed to his own makes Tomoya keen at the same time Masahiro groans into his jaw.

“’hiro,” Tomoya says again, the name dissolving on his tongue as Masahiro starts to rock against him. “ _Ah_ \--ah, ‘hiro--”

“Yeah.”

And even though he’s acknowledged--even though Masahiro speaks--they don’t stop moving. Their hips roll, writhe, press and move, and Tomoya clutches into Masahiro’s shirt just for something to hold onto.

And Masahiro kisses him just to moan into his mouth.

It’s an elementary form of relief, rutting against your lover like this, but as far as first times go Tomoya can’t say he’s complaining. They kiss, hands all over, they press and rub and promise, and by the time both their flies are open and Masahiro’s thick fingers grip them both, it doesn’t take much for Tomoya to come--white and sticky and thick over Masahiro’s fist.

* * *

  
Coming back to the track is a little embarrassing. In the one day they’d spent out in the sun both Tomoya and Masahiro have become considerably tan, and Aki points it out with a finger and a laugh on his lips, teasing about romantic getaways and tropical fun.

“We were with _friends_ , Aki-kun,” Tomoya scoffs.

And Aki follows it up with, “Doesn’t mean you guys didn’t fuck.”

Tomoya spits his water out at the same time Shin smacks Aki upside the head, but given Aki’s laughing again, it’s not like any of that really matters. Tomoya’s cheeks burn, his hand rapidly rubbing at his wet mouth, but more than embarrassment it’s more a direct reaction to the memories that burn in his head.

Of Masahiro’s hand, uncurling from them both.

Of Masahiro’s fingers, brushing come over Tomoya’s lips and telling him to suck them clean.

He shakes his head rapidly, furious (as if it’s not his fault he won’t stop remembering), and when he comes back to himself he sees everything’s settled down around him.

“Friends,” is what Shin says as he sits by Tomoya’s side. “You guys have fun, at least?”

Tomoya nods and smiles. He can at least think that much and not want to bash his head in. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we did. We were out with JURIA, you know?”

“Thought you guys broke up?” Shin asks, surprised. Tomoya nods again, taking a proper gulp of water now that Aki isn’t pestering him. “We did,” he affirms, “yeah. A few years back. But we’re still friends, you know. Me, Leader, Gussan, Taichi-kun…”

“And now Matsuoka, huh.”

Tomoya grins sheepishly. “I couldn’t leave him behind.”

“Good,” Shin says, giving Tomoya a pat on the shoulder. “Because if you did, I think he’d have texted me all day moping about it.”

Tomoya laughs as Shin gets back to his feet, saying something about going to check on his bike and Mariko--about how he hopes it’s his turn next to get lucky with his mechanic, and _why couldn’t I have been into guys like you, Tom?_ Regardless, Tomoya shakes his head, watching his friend go for a grand total of three seconds before it hits him--

“Wait, since when’ve you and ‘hiro been talking about me!?”

And Tomoya would’ve run after him too, but Aki grabs his wrist and pulls him back with a little click of his tongue.

“Best you don’t ride that thought,” he says sagely, but the illusion is promptly shattered when he adds, “and ride Matsuoka instead like he wants you to.”

Tomoya sputters. “What!?”

He only has fifteen minutes to try and strangle answers out of Aki before Gonzo separates them both, and even then it’s to remind them they’ve got to roll their bikes out. Needless to say, the images in Tomoya’s head have increased in danger levels, and he’s starting to wonder if exploding on the track really is possible.

* * *

  
Stretched out on Masahiro’s carpet, Tomoya yawns and basks in the sun that filters in through the window. There’s a sofa, that’s for sure, but in his attempts to get comfy he’d slipped off the cushions entirely and landed on the floor. Masahiro’s carpet is so soft and nice Tomoya can’t even say it’s uncomfortable, most especially with the ambient sounds of Masahiro in the kitchen making freshly squeezed orange juice.

It feels terribly domestic. Tomoya scratches his tummy and smiles.

“You look like a cat,” Masahiro says as he sits by Tomoya on the floor. He’s got a pitcher of juice with him, which he sets easily on the coffee table, and two glasses--one of them very lightly touches Tomoya’s forehead. “Not that I’m complaining, but if you drink like that you’re going to spill, and I’m going to kill you if you stain my carpet.”

Tomoya giggles, but he does take the glass with both hands and pull himself up to sitting. Masahiro fills it dutifully before filling his own, and with a little clink of their glasses together they both start to drink out of it.

“You can’t kill me,” is what Tomoya says, teasing and happy. “You’d miss me too much.”

Masahiro’s nose crinkles. “Is that first place win getting to your head now?” But given that Tomoya gets an orange-flavoured kiss to the lips after, he supposes Masahiro doesn’t really mind.

Land Snail Racing is going to be in the final race two weeks from now; in a miraculous turn of events, Tomoya, Shin, and Gonzo took up first, second, and third places respectively. They went drinking after, Aki pouting because he landed in fifth instead of fourth, but a good few rounds of karaoke had him smiling like a goof again, and everything was as everything should be.

Tomoya went home with Masahiro to no-one’s surprise, but all that teasing aside, they were both tired enough that all they did after was sleep, Masahiro’s chest to Tomoya’s back and their arms tangled together.

It’s a little past noon now and Tomoya’s hangover has essentially left him, but that might be because Masahiro fed him so many eggs for breakfast. In any case, Tomoya decides that today is a good day.

“Mm--what’d you want to do today?” Tomoya asks, licking the stray juice off his lips. “A movie? Anime? You still have my Doraemon collection, right?”

“Actually,” Masahiro starts, leaning back on one hand--the other swishes his juice around like fine wine, “I wanted to show you something.”

“Something,” Tomoya repeats, and cryptic meaning or not, he decides he wants to see. “Okay. Where?”

Masahiro grins at him, downs all his juice, and tugs Tomoya up to standing. Tomoya’s fingers curl around Masahiro’s, his free hand reaching out for the pitcher, and together they walk over the threshold and down the hall.

While he does expect to be shown a room in some vague, general sense, what he doesn’t expect is the stuff inside. Tomoya nearly drops the pitcher, too, and it’s only because Masahiro catches it in both of hands that it doesn’t spill juice all over his priceless carpet.

There’s a writing desk and a chair--papers strewn over the former like a graceful cliche--but with them are two guitars, a speaker system, and (upon closer inspection), a CD case resting over a player.

“Holy--”

“Kokubun-san told me to keep them,” Masahiro says easily, smoothly. “Said something about…” His brows screw up, hand gesturing absently. “I don’t know, getting the band back together?”

“You’re joking.”

“Boy, I wish I was.” Masahiro lifts the pitcher up and pours juice straight into his mouth. “I had to move a lot of boxes out of the room for this, you know.”

Tomoya walks in, careful not to step on any of the wires, and his first stop is the desk and its papers. He doesn’t expect to see compositions, nor does he expect to see the sprawling notes written into lines, nor does he expect to see old lyrics to songs he thought he’d forgotten. Pencilled up top are titles (The Course of Life, …as one, Under A Free Name) and under most of them is the same line: _RE-ARRANGED BY TAICHI KOKUBUN_. Tomoya thinks about it--remembers that night with the guitar and the beatbox, and the word _re-arranged_ in Joshima’s mouth--and something he’d hidden away knocks on his door like an unforgettable memory.

“He said something about… figuring out what was wrong with your old stuff and turning it new again.” Masahiro shrugs his shoulders. “The Love You Only effect. Personally I don’t get any of it, but since I’ve been sitting on this since the day we went up to the beach, I’ve looked long enough to figure out some good beats for everything, and maybe if you give me a few weeks to learn how to do the drums then maybe I could--”

He’s interrupted by a faceful of Tomoya, hands on both Masahiro’s cheeks and a mouth pressed to his own. Masahiro doesn’t even bother murmuring, doesn’t try to speak again, and instead returns the kiss with his free arm looping around Tomoya’s waist and his hand tightening around the handle of his pitcher.

When Tomoya pulls away, he smiles. “Y’know, I was the only one in JURIA who couldn’t write lyrics.”

“Really?” Masahiro’s voice is a little faraway, kiss-swollen and taken, but he doesn’t seem to argue when Tomoya pulls away and plops down into the chair.

“Really,” Tomoya agrees, going through the sheets of compositions before finding one without a title. He sees his handwriting, sees his messy, pencilled-in notes, and finds himself unable to resist a smile at Taichi’s sentimentality.

The pitcher is set on the desk in the corner by the wall. Masahiro picks up the sheet Tomoya’s looking at. “This one doesn’t have any words on it besides ‘pitch up’.”

“I told you.” Tomoya laughs, elbow on the desk and cheek on his palm. “I couldn’t write lyrics.”

“Hm.” So Masahiro hands him the paper back, tells Tomoya to wait just a second, and leaves the room. Tomoya watches the doorway, a curious expression on his face, and tries not to look too obvious in how Masahiro’s return has him brightening up.

It looks like Masahiro’s got papers too, but they’re browned and aged and held together by a paperclip. These he sets down beside Tomoya’s sheet of wordless music, making the smallest gesture in the direction of his neat pile.

Tomoya reads the title of the poem out loud: “Low Speed.” The subtitle he reads with half a laugh. “By Masahiro Matsuoka, age 15.”

“If words were all you needed, then…” Masahiro ends this in a shrug, and while his arms cross over his chest in faux toughness, the smile on his mouth betrays him as it always does.

“You’d give me yours?” Tomoya can’t stop smiling.

“What, is that such a crime?” Masahiro bends, one hand on Tomoya’s shoulder while the other picks a pencil out of the cup on the desk. He looks at the composition sheet, absently scribbling lyrics in beneath each note, and Tomoya watches, mesmerised, as Masahiro hums every note he sees and writes an appropriate syllable beneath each of them.

“No, but…” And Tomoya would say more, but Masahiro’s kissing his cheek and resting his chin on his shoulder, and that’s more than enough for Tomoya to shut up for a long time.

Masahiro keeps on writing, meanwhile. “I told you--your voice is _great_. And if getting the band back together means I get to listen to more of it, then I’ll write as many words as you need.”

Tomoya’s heart quivers. Under Masahiro’s hand, his composition gains a little bit more than a few strums of the guitar.

So he says it: “I love you, ‘hiro.”

The pencil flies right off the page and clatters down by the desk. “Idiot,” Masahiro scoffs, but he grins stupidly even when he shakes his head and moves to pick it up off the floor. “I love you, too.”

* * *

  
“The other guy’s not here?”

Mariko comes in with a raised brow. Tomoya glances up from his mostly-disassembled bike, nods, and then chews the inside of his cheek as he tries to set everything up. Mariko lets out a ‘huh’, walking over to her side of the garage, and Tomoya watches out of the corner of his eye as she ties her hair up and gets to work.

He’s never actually spoken to Mariko, now that he thinks about it. Besides seeing her interact with Masahiro and learning of her long-standing choice of rejection against Shin, throughout the almost-year that he’s been racing, he’s not once gotten to know what she’s like. Part of Tomoya wants to reach out--to ask about her--but the way she holds screws in her teeth and works on Shin’s bike with a quick and expert touch tells him that one wrong move will have those screws lodged deep into his eyes.

And he really needs his eyes to see.

“Where is he?”

Snapped out of his reverie, Tomoya nearly drops his wrench, but quickly regains composure with a laugh. Looks like whatever worries he might have had were for nothing. “What?”

“Matsuoka,” Mariko says plainly. She pulls a screw from her teeth and puts it in. “He’s never missed a day of work.”

“Oh, well…” Tomoya’s nose crinkles up just a little, head cocking to the side. “He’s babysitting.”

“What?”

“Babysitting--we have a friend, and he has a daughter, and so…”

Mariko pauses, and when he peeks over at her Tomoya sees how she tries to digest the thought in her mind before finally rounding off with, “That’s unexpectedly cute.”

“Yeah!” Tomoya chirps happily, immediate and quick in his response. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve been doing this stuff with Masahiro so long I figure he trusts me enough to do it on my own, so it’s no trouble at all.”

Mariko makes a pensive sound--one that Tomoya remembers Masahiro used to do when they’d first started talking--and he wonders if it’s a mechanic thing, if it’s passed down the ages and generations. He stands to pick a pipe up and fix it to his bike, both his cheeks puffed up, and Mariko keeps on tinkering with god knows what on her end.

“But today’s your final race.”

“Yeah… and?”

“You’d think a perfectionist like Matsuoka wouldn’t want to leave you alone for that.”

Tomoya pauses in the middle of turning his wrench, peering up over the bike to look at Mariko’s back. “What do you mea--”

“If you explode on track during your last race, that’d be horrible.”

“I wouldn’t--!” Tomoya squeaks in indignation, but the sight of Mariko’s shoulders shaking and the sound of her tiny peals of laughter quickly has him smiling instead. So he laughs too, getting back to work and putting Masahiro’s precious, lighter-than-average bolts into his precious Harley. “Say, Mariko-san, can I ask you something?”

Mariko whistles. “You just did.”

And Tomoya snickers, because now he gets what Shin must find so charming about her.

“Okay,” he acquiesces. The question forms itself in his mouth, simple and the slightest bit awkward, but no matter how many months have passed it seems he’s never quite been able to let it go. He reaches for a pipe and starts to clean it, dragging his teeth over his lip before asking, “Do you know why Masahiro left the MotoGP?”

Mariko nods. “Sure,” she says, easy as one-two-three. Tomoya’s in half-disbelief at the fact that he’s going to get an answer, in even more disbelief that all he really had to do was ask, but it doesn’t stop him from waiting dutifully.

“It’s because he wanted to go home.”

“Home…” Tomoya repeats this with his lips pursed, and his brows furrow as he looks up at Mariko’s back once more. On his end, he sees many things--sees a bike under his hands and the ocean at his side, sees guitar strings under his hands and wires connecting to speakers, sees Masahiro’s crooked teeth and his name safe in his mouth, sees a warm fire on a cold evening and five friends around it--but he’s sure that none of those can be it for Masahiro, too. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I’m just telling you what he told me,” she answers, standing from Shin’s bike and giving it a good once-over, gloved hands over metal and all. “It’s different for everyone, right? So for him, we can say it definitely wasn’t the pro leagues. And for me--” She nods to herself once she’s checked every nook and cranny, bending to put all her tools back into their box. “--it’s the girl I got waiting for me at home.”

Tomoya perks up. Mariko senses this enough to glance back at him and grin.

“You’re not the only one with a hot partner, Nagase,” she teases. Tomoya flushes a little, his head dipping and his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, but it’s not like she’s wrong. He expects at this point that Mariko’s going to leave--that seems to be the usual pattern for her: finish up quick and go--but he hears a chair being pulled and Mariko’s boots making noise against the concrete floor when she moves to sit on it.

When he looks back at her, she’s watching him intently, arms folded over the backrest and her lips in a friendly enough smile. “But what’s home to you?”

“Me?”

“Sure. I got time to kill.”

And Tomoya thinks about it, flicking through those initial images. He thinks about his old home of JURIA, his new home of Land Snail Racing, and his newer home of Masahiro. He thinks about music and races, and the feel of a mouth on his own--he thinks of friends and lovers, of failure and success. Which of these makes him up the most? Which of these says Tomoya Nagase the loudest? The word is ‘home’, but he wonders if home is a place or setting or set of people that you can come to at all.

He’s surprised when Mariko comes over and helps him put his bike back together, but she works so quickly he supposes he’s grateful for the help. Tomoya smiles sheepishly, mouths a ‘thank you’, and smiles even wider when she mouths ‘don’t mention it’ back at him.

In the end his answers ends up being, “I’m not sure.”

“That’s fair,” Mariko says in reply, neither enlightened nor disappointed.

“I don’t think I can choose just one thing,” Tomoya admits. “You know?”

And Mariko does know, because she grins and gives him a friendly punch to the arm. “Yeah, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

* * *

  
Masahiro pulls him away from prying eyes to kiss him. They’re blocked by the shade of a giant umbrella and the length of a thick pole, but given the fact that the race is about to start, it’s not like there’s anyone to hide _from_. Tomoya coos, smiling into it, and the feel of Masahiro’s thumb brushing his cheekbone almost has him losing his footing entirely.

“Easy,” Masahiro breathes, tongue lightly touching the swell of Tomoya’s mouth and hands holding him steady. It’s a little embarrassing; Tomoya wishes he were more elegant about these things. But given that Masahiro pulls away in a tug of Tomoya’s lip with his teeth, he also supposes there’s no real reason to complain.

Tomoya’s arms loop over Masahiro’s shoulders, locking behind his neck with both wrists touching. “Can you believe how far we’ve gotten?”

“Us?” Masahiro punctuates this with a brush of his nose to Tomoya’s, and the gesture is so sweet Tomoya can’t help but kiss him again. “Or Land Snail Racing?”

“Both,” Tomoya says, his hands trailing up his neck and over the soft curves of Masahiro’s jaw. The way Masahiro turns his head and kisses his palm gets his heart fluttering again, but this time he’s held tight enough to keep from stumbling in the wake of it.

Masahiro smiles at him, obvious all the way to the crinkle of his eyes. “Yeah, I can believe it.”

“I can’t.”

“Then--“ Now Masahiro reaches up, pecking Tomoya’s forehead. “--I’ll believe enough for the both of us.”

“Masahiro…”

And Tomoya would say more, but from behind him comes, “Are we interrupting?”

A whole rush of thoughts comes into Tomoya’s mind just then: _Have we been found out? Is that a reporter? Did they get pictures of me kissing Masahiro? Oh God, oh no, I can’t have a scandal for liking men, not now that we’re so close to winning, not now that—_

But they’re all quelled when Masahiro pulls him closer and says, “Took you guys long enough.”

“Shige was trying to find ‘the perfect outfit’.” At that Tomoya turns, the sight of Joshima and Tatsuya coming up making his legs turn to jelly again. “Said something about how he wanted it to be ‘supportive of the snails’, so—“

Joshima spreads his arms wide, making a bit of a spin when he stops walking. “Leaf print!”

“What’re you doing here?” Tomoya walks just enough to leave Masahiro’s grip, but on instinct his hand reaches back and clasps onto Masahiro’s all the same. “You guys never come to my—“

“Matsuoka told us about it,” Tatsuya says, grinning. “Said it was your big day today, so…”

“So we came!” Joshima rounds off happily. His arm slings over Tatsuya’s shoulders, Tatsuya’s hand reaches up to ruffle Joshima’s hair, and Tomoya watches with wide eyes because he’s still in denial of what’s happening before him.

Then he glances at Masahiro. “You told them?”

“Hey.” Masahiro shrugs his shoulders. “I just thought you’d like your friends to be here for you.”

“But where’s Taichi-kun?”

“He couldn’t make it,” Joshima answers, but not without a comforting smile to ease the wash of disappointment that swells in Tomoya’s heart. “His wife had time off for lunch today, and what with him and Naomi-chan both at home…”

“Oh.” That, at least, Tomoya can understand.

“Don’t worry, though,” Tatsuya says, waving his hand dismissively. “Shige and Matsuoka and I, we’re gonna take a whole truckload of pictures, so Taichi won’t miss a thing.”

Tomoya laughs; Masahiro squeezes his hand, and Tomoya returns it without looking back. “You guys—“

Joshima chuckles. “Don’t make that face, Nagase. We’re JURIA, right? Either we all cheer for you or we don’t at all.”

“All or nothing,” Tatsuya adds, and when he brings his fist up for a bump, Tomoya blinks before moving on to punch it.

He remembers: the stolen moments before their performances, the days they had to record in the studio, the time before Taichi discovered them and they played out on the street. Everything they did, they decided to do together. Even disbanding was something they agreed on without regret. And the more he thinks about the friends that’d been there for him, the happier he gets, even as the faces shuffle beyond JURIA and to Land Snail Racing, instead.

Then he thinks of the compositions in Masahiro’s newly-converted music room, how Taichi had asked Masahiro specifically to do something for him. And that makes Tomoya lift his head.

He’s the one who pulls Masahiro closer this time, their hands clasped together tightly.

“Masahiro gave me lyrics,” he says.

“What?” Joshima replies.

A little flustered (more so when Masahiro calls his name in question), Tomoya repeats, “Masahiro gave me lyrics.”

The moment Tatsuya’s expression goes curious and Joshima’s goes warm, Tomoya wants so badly to explain what he means. But an announcement comes from the speakers around them for the start of the race, and before Tomoya realizes what’s happening he’s rushing to his bike to make it there.

* * *

  
Shin gathers them up one last time before they get on their bikes. They stand in a circle, arms around each other’s shoulders and heads ducked in.

“We made it this far, guys,” Shin says. “The final race.”

“I accept thanks in the form of checks,” Aki purrs, and as Tomoya and Gonzo laugh, Shin uses the toe of his boot to nudge him in the shin.

“That guy aside—my point is, I’m happy we got to race together.” Shin’s grip tightens where it’s curled around Tomoya’s shoulder and tightens around Gonzo’s frame as well. They return the warmth of it, the feelings incorporated, and where Aki stands between them, he receives the same treatment.

When Shin smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle. Tomoya thinks about it, and Shin might be the same age as Joshima. “I’m happy we could do our best.

“We don’t have to win now, and we don’t have to be the over-all champions. LSR is just a group of friends who like to ride--and I think we’ve all earned something just standing here today. What I want you guys to do is focus on having fun, and as long as you can agree to that, then we’ll have the best race ever, no matter the outcome.”

Tomoya nods hard. “I will!”

Aki grins. “I never take this stuff seriously, Shin.”

Gonzo bows. “I agree.”

“In that case—“ Shin dips his head lower. “—who’s the best team in Japan?”

The four of them shout _Land Snail Racing_ at once.

Tomoya whispers, “And JURIA.” under his breath.

* * *

  
When he looks around him, immediately he sees his bike brothers. He sees each number and each name, listening to the rev of the each bine’s engine, and sees them hunched over just like Tomoya has been for a few seconds now. The announcer counts how many seconds ‘till the starter pistol is fired, and then it is. With that, everyone zooms away.

For a split-second, Tomoya sees JURIA in the crowd.

Then he sees the world rush around him and his engine roars to life.

* * *

  
There’s a lot still in store for him. There is more than riding a bike on a beach day, or jamming with your friends around a campfire, or karaoke where there is sing and dance and alcohol. And sometimes there’s no need to make any form of distinction, even when one place seems far too different to be part of the same universe as the rest.

In the end, Land Snail Racing hits second. Shin loses against another racer by a hair, but LSR is so busy picking Shin up and tossing him in the air they don’t quite realise he needs his space first.

They return to their area, arms around each other’s shoulders. When Tomoya sees JURIA there waiting for him, he brightens up like Christmas day.

At introductions, Shin decides he likes them. Joshima in turn gives his smile of approval.

And Tomoya can tell why, when kissing Masahiro as he comes forward has both leaders grinning at them.

In a way, Tomoya used to be worried. When the band tanked and he had to move to racing, when racing worked well and the music came back.

But home doesn’t have to move on and home doesn’t have to be new. Home doesn’t evolve to be different with him, and that’s why it feels like home. Not a place to live in all the time, but a place to come to when he’s lost.

His father was right, but so was his mother. To ride a bike is to be free, but so too is to make music. Tomoya tells himself he’s lucky to be able to do both.

In the end, JURIA doesn’t become JURIA. Taichi says something about how the brand belongs to a different set of men—how now that they have Masahiro joining the fray, they’ll need a new name entirely.

“Tokyo,” is what Masahiro suggests. “The best city in the world.”

“But we gotta make it more distinct, more Google-able!” Tomoya insists. “Maybe Tokio, like the good old days?”

“I liked the big letters,” Tatsuya offers.

So TOKIO they become.

Land Snail Racing continues, but with the next big race happening next year, they stick to drag races. It’s not nearly as luxurious, but it’s exciting, and when one day a new player joins their team with the name TSY on his back, Tomoya hugs Tatsuya tight and cheers about how happy he is.

Once a month, LSR comes together. Masahiro’s still their mechanic and still kisses Tomoya when no-one’s looking, and now that Tatsuya’s a member Joshima brings him lunch. Nobody is quite as loved as Naomi, though, and Tomoya half-suspects the only reason Taichi brings her over sometimes is because he’s got to rub it in everyone’s faces how his child is cuter than all of them.

Tomoya is the happiest he’s ever been.

* * *

  
Putting in the handlebars to his motorbike, Tomoya’s gaze shifts to where Masahiro’s deftly messing with the engine.

He asks, “How did you feel after leaving the Moto GP?”

Masahiro answers, “The happiest I’ve ever been.”


End file.
